Running-Away-Fund: 21st Century Good Housekeeping by Deception

Here’s a moral problem of modern mores that has recently come to my attention.

Call me old-fashioned but I’m at present dumbstruck by a September 2006 issue of Good Housekeeping (doctor’s waiting room) in which their Problems Page discusses women’s housekeeping, and whether a husband or Significant Other can be trusted to provide for a stay-at-home mother of a child.

The step-by-step advice given to the reader, on the assumption she does not work since she is rearing an infant, is that ...

1: She should discuss with her Significant Other a household budget that is falsely ‘weighted’ by 20 percent; 

2: She should negotiate with her Significant Other the proposed budget less 10 percent to gain credence; 

3: She should salt away the 10 percent budget surplus and her Child Benefit as ‘running-away-money’.

The conclusion is that, whatever the ethics of how the surplus housekeeping is obtained (and Good Housekeeping’s agony aunt recommends base deception), all women should have secret ‘running-away-money’ ... the advice column concludes with the example of a woman long married who had amassed a secret ‘running-away-fund’ of £57,000 from her housekeeping... (?)

Well. Here’s a case of modern morals for debate, and one that raises many questions about the sanctity of marriage and the case for mutual trust.

As I wrote in my most recent fiction for Ambit (issue 212, Darkly, More is Seen): 

Soon I had my escape route mapped out in the same meticulous detail with which my Significant Other would pack his emergency grab-bag for a transatlantic yacht race in the event of sinking.
   An abandon-ship-bag!
   Let me affirm here and now, in the strongest terms, that, for a moonlight flit, ‘Every Housewife Should Have One!’
   Hereunder, then, allow me to itemise the contents of an essential panic-bag all survivalists should pack in readiness for the old heaveho.
   Your grab-bag should contain: Nightdress, Toothbrush, Underwear, Passport, Identity Card, Credit Card, Prescribed Medication, Basic Toiletries, Facial Tissues (Mansize), and Foldable Raincoat and Galoshes.
   Forget your house-keys and address book; you won’t be needing them again. Similarly, for the completest disappearing act, of course, you will not need a distress call nor rescue flares for your life-raft.

Well. When it comes down to it, fiction is pure escapism, of course, yet I trust my escapism outside fiction does not have to depend on the housekeeping budget being squirrelled away in an abandon-ship-panic-bag ... on balance, if I’m heading for a shipwreck I’d rather remain onboard and rearrange the deckchairs to avoid seeing the rocks ... and, for the moment, that steamer lounger on the sun deck has a distinct appeal.

Moonlight Flit by George Cruikshank (detail)

    

Maugham Lite … 1931 Flash Fiction Sans Worst Bits (To be Continued)

Brian Bray, just down from Oxford has spent all his money and is out of a job. All that is left to him is his love for Felicity Mansell, a ten-shilling note and unbounded optimism. Felicity’s parents will not let her become engaged to Brian, but she promises that she will wait for him.
    One day, Brian meets Mr. Wellesley, a partner of the firm of Wellesley and Milligan, Eastern merchants and shippers. He takes a fancy to Brian and gives him a job with his firm out East.
    Brian arrives in Rangoon where he is met by Mr. Dupont, a future colleague, who takes him to have a drink at the Silver Grill. There, Mr. Dupont points out a half-caste girl, Norah.
    Brian then goes on to the Chummery, where he meets Mr. Royard, Mr. Mountjoy and Mr. Milligan and his daughter, Mary.
    Royard falls ill and Brian takes over the books; he discovers that Dupont is, in secret, owing the firm hundreds of rupees. He is dismissed and, after he has gone, Brian goes to break the news to Norah, who is heart-broken.
    The same evening, he is introduced by Major Healdingham to Helen O’Connor, Lord Kildare’s only daughter. He goes to dinner with her and her father the next day and, on his return to the Chummery, finds a police inspector waiting for him. The inspector tells him that Norah has committed suicide and, as a letter from him was found at her home, suggests that he may know something about it. Brian denies this and Lord Kildare backs him up at the inquest next day, having overheard Brian break the news of Dupont’s sudden departure to Norah at the Thursday Club.
    Brian meets Helen again that night. He offers her a cigarette as they sit waiting for her father. And as he flicks the case open, a snapshot of Felicity falls out.
    ‘What a pretty kid,’ Helen remarks casually. ‘Is it your sister?’

Brian said: ‘I never had any sisters. That’s the girl I’m going to marry.’
    Leaning back beside Helen, he told her about Felicity. He did not find it easy to talk of her.
    Helen held the snapshot in her hand, and smiled at it, her eyebrows raised.
    ‘What a child. And how pretty. Like a sprig of apple blossom. So this is your first love?’
    ‘My first and only love,’ he said.
    She gave him back the picture without comment. All that evening she was so gentle and dignified, and behaved so beautifully, although amongst the guests there were at least two people she disliked cordially, that her father wondered anxiously whether she was quite well. Brian went home that night in the best of spirits, feeling he had made a wonderful friend. 
    And he sat up late, writing with the greatest lightheartedness to Felicity, and told her the whole story of Norah, with certain omissions, because one longed to spare Felicity all the worst bits of life.

----- 

Well, I thought, turning the page of my mother’s Miss Modern magazine of February 1931 (Special Fiction Number, price 6d), this is a tale of estimable brevity ... and what a bitterly sarcastic sting to its tale.
    Then I noticed the shift from present tense to past tense, and the significant gap in the text across which the time travelling reader must leap.
    Then it dawned on me! How foolish I’d been. That first column was really just a NOW READ ON style of résumé to assist readers to catch up with the beginning of the tale published in the previous issue!
    Oh! I was disappointed. I truly thought I had stumbled across the earliest specimen of women’s flash fiction. Of course, on the next page the tale continued for a further nine columns, ending with ...

(To be continued) 

My thoughts turned to the authoress. Was she a recognised authority on the Far East? From the context, it would seem so. And so it proved.
    Dorothy Black (1890-1977) turns out to be Dorothy MacLeish, a British writer of over 100 romance novels and several short stories from 1916 to 1974 under her maiden name Dorothy Black and as Peter Delius. Because of her husband’s job, she moved to Rangoon, Burma, where she started to publish fiction. In Burma she raised her children, using this setting and India as inspiration for many of her novels. 
    In 1934 she published anonymously Letters of an Indian Judge to an English Gentlewoman, a significant account of British colonial racism, still being reprinted into the late twentieth century.  
    So the fates of outsider Norah and the disgraced Dupont gain deeper resonances when we consider that this serialised romance, billed as the ‘glamour of the East’, was actually an offshoot of  a serious anthropo-sociological study (albeit dressed up as fiction) from a writer clearly warranting more critical notice than that she commanded as vice-president of the Romantic Novelists’ Association.
    However, I am certain that Dorothy must have been supremely content to write at last an anti-romance, without omissions, designed calculatedly not to spare readers of the exotic, such as her Felicity, the worst bits of life.

By Grand Satyr Stanzas I Sat Down and Read.

That Alexis Lykiard, in his rousing new poetry collection, Getting On, name-checks tragic lovers George Barker and Elizabeth Smart (The Biters Bit) is a not wholly unintended evocation of a general mood, it seems to me, when considering the whole complex web of personal thematic strands that are braided to make this book of verses that often chart his perplexing amours.

As to the combative yet tender personas of the poet, there are many. Take his streetfighter stance. One starts to think of the cojones of Norman Mailer or Vernon Scannell, both professional bruisers with LOVE tattooed on their knuckles when the gloves were off. As to the sophistication of the refined demotic, other eminent comparators spring to mind: Roy Fuller (‘confused senescence’ definitely has Fullerian resonances from his late manner), likewise Gavin Ewart at his most pithy, or Thomas Blackburn, say, at his arctic iciest, or, indeed, the cruel mockery of Edward Pygge (and his sister Edwina) in their many guises as scourges of the literati.

So Alexis’s own gold standard for a poem is as challenging as any the dedicated connoisseur might encounter, even among the ‘Faberized’ poets disdained so pitilessly on page 72. (‘Tall story man or Thirties schoolboy-pretender.’ You supply the rhyming couplet.) It’s an altogether daunting benchmark, then, he has set himself. Because I notice Alexis turns to Empson to define his model for vitality in the ‘singing line’ of economic yet memorable verse: ‘…narrative, wit, musicality …’ all of which he exhibits in poems of considerable range and ambition. Yet, despite the caustic social observation, the biting satire, the skewering of media show-offs and the ‘brilliant frauds’ of the so-called fine-art market of our times, I personally cleave to those poems where musicality and thought are yoked together in felicitous counterpoints. And here one is reminded of the masterly crisp lyrics James Agee composed for Candide … Oh! Where was Lykiard in Leonard Bernstein’s hour of greatest need! 

I mention Agee and Empson as models for the diction of almost Nietzschean aphoristic compression that can turn humdrum matter into highest carat gems. Well, certainly Lykiard is their match. Neat specimens of his dry wit? ‘So life turns, page by page,/Toward whatever solution will mark the end of age.’ ‘John Addington Symonds … this handsome scholarly invert/became fully aware how for him and s-/ome others, the male form of Sin hurt.’ ‘All/that was valued formerly seems vain pretence./Those joys barely recalled, the rites of innocence/in gathered lust, prime juice desired and felt,/pale by stark contrast with the card that age has dealt.’

But don’t let me take this poet at his own worth, because he suggests his poems are to be measured by poets whose eminence is beyond question: ‘With Roy Fuller, Enright, Empson, could they rally to attack/our increasing stacks of balderdash, this century’s bric-à-brac?/Should we ignore, or acknowledge, a ghostly shadow on blue plaque?/Are true, irascible talents required to keep Poets on track?’ 

Well, these masters are, alas, no longer with us to judge Getting On, yet I am sure their praise would have been unstinting. I am certain, too, they would have relished this antepenultimate Age of Man … the age so aptly expressed by Picasso when he etched himself as an ancient satyriatic monkey contemplating his naked muse. And take special note, too, of Lykiard’s Poets Cornered segment of this collection; the venom he reserves for certain overweening versifiers among us is in so many cases wholly deserved. 

When the invective hits the fan Alexis takes no prisoners. For readers with strong stomachs and a taste for Rabelaisian scatology there is a groaning table of pungent scurrility here.

To be sure Lykiard invites you to share a bitter, self-lacerating mood of the tempo di profanazione – the time of desecration described by Moravia in his late novel, La vita interiore – but it’s also an exhilarating mood of ‘irascible’ mischievousness, heedless of any comebacks. In other words, the anecdotage of a randy goatage … but here with the wit, brio and the raw honesty of essaying to recall ‘those rites of innocence in gathered lust’, which, as Alexis proves, have not yet faded from view and sense but can be restored by the vitality and sparkling intelligence of his verse.



GETTING ON
Poems by Alexis Lykiard
£9.99
ISBN: 978 1 907356 46 9
Shoestring Press
http://www.shoestring-press.com/2012/04/getting-on/

Home thoughts from abroad ... not thought twice over.

Enduring once more my weekly traitements thalassothérapeutiques at the hydro, I discovered a fellow-victim to be an Englishwoman and to distract ourselves from our watery exertions we fell to talking of our shared nostalgia for the birdsong of England.

I said I was fond of the stonechat's distinctive cry as it reminded me of Sussex road menders and my home county’s knappers of flint.

The blackbird was my bathing companion’s favourite from her schooldays she declared, then she quoted : 

The nightingale has a lyre of gold,     
    The lark’s is a clarion call,     
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,     
    But I love him best of all.     

 
The verse was new to me so I murmured, ‘How lovely!’ or some such vapidity but actually I was thinking, ‘But that’s torn it! Didn’t I compose a similar phrase years ago!’

That horrible feeling of déjà vu chilled me more than the thought of the wretched plunge-bath cure I’d next undergo.

So once I returned to my study I referred to my drafts. And there it was! ‘The muted woodwind of pigeons.’ From my text of The Captain’s Runner, my reminiscences of Sussex, seen through the eyes of a seven-year old keeper of rabbits:

The mist still hung above the hummocks of sour cooch grass in the wildernesses which bordered the stream. It was along these banks that the village children went wildfaring for food plants.
    From the other side of a coppice resounded the muted woodwind of pigeons.
    The path was familiar to them and led through plantains to a clearing where a variety of rabbit greens congregated in abundant supply. Along a hedgerow grew the leaves of coltsfoot, dandelion, clover, vetches, yarrow, sow thistle and that astringent tonic, shepherd’s purse; and, nearer the marshy margin of the stream, hogweed and clumps of hazel flourished.  The leaves of oak, elm and maple also abounded.

Oh, the relief. Thanks goodness not every writer sings the same song twice over.

See my thoughts on palimpsestic writings here ...
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/lure-of-list-doomed-excavations-of-ur.html

I have a Rendezvous with Dread at Destination Echoville

Last night, I awoke to the thought that there is definite pattern to a number of Arabian Nights fables, a template that has been hijacked by certain 20th century hardboiled writers of fiction, and also by a fabulist whose febrile cranium must have been eggshell thin.

The classic fable derived from Scheherazade’s telling goes like this ...

Narrative: A dream or a vision compels the Dreamer or Visionary to flee to a distant city where a revelatory encounter teaches him to see himself for what he truly is, the Blessed or the Damned.  

Interpretation? Like Scheherazade’s dreamer-protagonist, you attempt to flee your ego yet there is no escape, for you have fled in your reverie to the false refuge of an Altered State – let’s call the place Echoville – where your neuroses are mirrored by a Shadow-Self whose actions challenge you to return to true Selfhood, whereupon you learn whether you’re to be punished or spared. 

The Ruined Man who Became Rich Again through a Dream.

In the Arabian Nights, this fable of Fall and Redemption is one of the simplest and, hence, the more striking, for it is straightforwardly linear (insofar as the narrative line passes through a looking-glass).

A wealthy man of Baghdad who had lost all his money, in despair, lay down to sleep and in his dream heard a voice say, ‘Verily thy fortune is in Cairo. Go thither and seek it.’ So he set out for Cairo and in that city he was mistaken for a thief, seized by the police and beaten near to death. After three days in a cell the Chief of Police sent for him, asking ‘Whence art thou?’ ‘From Baghdad,’ the prisoner replied, ‘I saw in a dream One who said to me, “Thy fortune’s in Cairo. Go thither to it.” ’ The Police Chief laughed and said, ‘Thrice have I seen in a dream One who said to me: “There is in Baghdad a house with a jetting fountain and under it a great sum of money lieth buried. Go thither and take it.” Yet I went not for I had no faith in an idle dream, which is only the foolery of sleep.’ The poor man was given money to return home by the Police Chief, whose dream of a house with jetting fountain perfectly resembled the man’s own house in Baghdad, so when the wayfarer returned to his city he at once dug underneath the fountain in his garden, and discovered a great treasure. Thus abundant fortune is given to the Blessed when the dreamer becomes the dreamt in another’s thrice seen dream.

As I admitted once in an interview with novelist Megan Taylor, ‘At present I am re-reading The Arabian Nights; the story The Ruined Man who Became Rich Again through a Dream has a theme I stole for the final chapter of Sister Morphine, but it is unlikely I’ll ever find a better theme! 
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/sister-morphine.html 
Of course, Scheherazade is really the Muse of all women writers, as a Storyteller-Under-Duress. MsLexia (rather a needy and whiny title for the journal, in my own view) has published works of mine, but Scheherazade* would have been a more apposite and affirming title, don’t you think? There are elements of Scheherazade’s dilemma in Sister Morphine … the narrator, a grief-counsellor, tells her stories to ward off her own grief.’

And, no, I have never found a better plotline in The Arabian Nights than the one I chose for my Sister Morphine all that time ago.  

Las ruinas circulares of Borges

The fabulist, Jorge Luis Borges, of course has taken similar tales from The Arabian Nights to refashion his own parables, notably The Circular Ruins in which ...

Narrative: A Necromancer induces himself to dream over many years the creation of another human being, a Youth conceived as a shadow of himself, and brings him into the world to live in a parallel temple not unlike the ruined pagan temple in which he ritually sleeps. He fears the Youth, his creation, will dematerialise should knowledge dawn that the being is but a projection of the Necromancer’s own mind. But at the moment of his own extinction, the Necromancer learns that he, too, is an imagined creature, made from another’s dreams.

Interpretation? Here Echoville is a mirrored semi-ruinous circular temple in which the objectivisation of the self may be seen, yet with self-knowledge comes the dissolution of the persona, bringing with it derealisation and the self-destruction that follows when disillusion denies the suspension of disbelief that is consentient existence.

The Dreamer Dreamt by Another is a motif that appears often in the works of Borges, and one must assume that part of his meaning is this: the vividness of everyday existence can be so bright as to extinguish the complementary shadow self that could make our personalities integrated and whole, just as the ‘sun destroys the interest of what’s happening in the shade.’

As to looking-glass linearity, the epigraph for The Circular Ruins is taken from Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll: 

‘And if he left off dreaming about you ...’ 

It comes from the passage in which Alice is told by a Looking-Glass character that her existence is jeopardised since she is simply a character in another character’s dream ... a character who, in the context of the story, she herself is dreaming as she sleeps in ‘Oh! Such a nice dream!’

An Englishwoman should not forget that many of Borges’s stories were directly inspired by English authors: Conan Doyle’s studies in scarlet (problems solved by inductive detection sharpened by the intermediations of cocaine) and G. K. Chesterton’s brown studies (problems solved by intuitive detection aided by the intercessions of the divine).

Note: It has only just occurred to me that A Study in Scarlet, written in 1886, was really rather an avant-garde title for Conan Doyle, when one considers that James McNeill Whistler in the same year was elected president of the Society of British Artists. So really the atmosphere of Conan Doyle’s London was not quite as pea-soupy as Borges might have supposed.

Appointment in Samarra.

So, the three-pipe problem of the thrice dreamt dream as a parable of Ego and Alter Ego – when Conscious fears or desires are transmuted by Subconscious fears or desires in the Echoville of Looking-Glass-land – still concerns the dreamer when considering other specimens from this literary genre, even those from the pens of the most hard-bitten pulp fictionists.

John O’Hara’s first novel, for instance, Appointment in Samarra, begins with this epigraph:

A merchant in Baghdad sends his servant to the marketplace for provisions. Shortly, the servant comes home white and trembling and tells him that in the marketplace he was jostled by a woman, whom he recognized as Death, and she made a threatening gesture. Borrowing the merchant’s horse, the servant flees as fast as the horse can gallop to Samarra, a distance of about 75 miles where he believes Death will not find him. The merchant then goes to the marketplace and finds Death, and asks why she made the threatening gesture. She replies, ‘That was not a threatening gesture, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.’

Now. Should you pursue the origin of this fable you will run into a pea-souper of daunting obfuscation. Suffice to say, some scholars believe, erroneously, that the origin of novelist Somerset Maugham’s celebrated parable (quoted in his theatrical drama, Sheppey, 1933) is When Death Came to Baghdad, a ninth century Arabian Sufi story in the sage Fozayl ibn Ziyad’s so-called Hikayat-I-Naqshiyya (Stories-with-a-Design).

Let me record here: no such collection of stories is known to exist, nor does the adjective naqshiyya (from naqsh, ‘picture, drawing’) seem a likely contemporaneous construction. Nor is it possible that the sage recorded the fable since we have no surviving writings from this very early Sufi, who probably died about 803. Another problem is that this title is clearly in New Persian (i.e., in the Arabic script), which was not yet in literary use at the time of Fozayl ibn Ziyad, otherwise known as Fudail ibn Ayad or Al-Fudhayl bin Iyyadh.

This is a perfect fable, elegantly symmetrical, with a dramatic punch unequalled by most western fictionists. Yet its origin is cloaked in mystery, a condition of recognition that would have profoundly satisfied Borges.

As it is, the fable has been cited often as a parable of the powerlessness of mortals to escape their brute fate and, as to similar metaphysical resonances derived from eastern mysticism discernible in 20th Century popular American fiction, Appointment in Samarra is spoken of in the same breath as The Postman Always Rings Twice. 

The Postman Always Rings Twice.   

This theme of the inescapability of fate finds contemporary expression in The Postman Always Rings Twice, the classic crime novel of 1934 by James M. Cain, author of Double Indemnity. In a Borgesian paradox that outrivals the master, nowhere in the novel does a postman appear, nor is one even alluded to. 

Cain, it is to be believed, had an explanation for the title saying it arose from a discussion with screenwriter Vincent Lawrence. According to Cain, Lawrence spoke of the anxiety he endured when waiting for the postman to bring news on a submitted manuscript — specifically noting that he would know when the postman had finally arrived because he always rang twice. Cain then seized upon the phrase as a title for his novel. 

In their understanding of the phrase’s significance, the ‘postman’ represents Fate, and the ‘delivery’ represents the protagonist’s own death as just retribution for murdering his lover’s husband. 

This echoes the Samarran second appointment with death, since in both cases the protagonist misses the first ‘ring’ by escaping retribution. However, Messenger Death ‘rings again’, and this time the ring is heard and Death’s Chosen are fated to die and be judged in purgatorial Echoville.

In the words of Alan Seeger (C1916) ...

I have a rendezvous with Death ...
At midnight in some flaming town ...
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

*Footnote 31.08.13 : Oh dear. Once again originality fails me, because reading a biographical sketch of Jean Cocteau I learn that Cocteau founded the magazine, Schéhérazade, with Maurice Rostand and François Bernard in 1909.

See also Strand Magazine for my further thoughts on James M. Cain’s novel and how he is held in veneration in France:

https://strandmag.com/why-did-the-postman-ring-twice-and-why-its-best-to-miss-appointments-in-samarra/

•

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, 

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 

and A Bad Case (2015)
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/a-bad-case-and-other-adventures-of.html

 

 

Lure of the List: Doomed Excavations of the Ur-Text and Other Futilities (Palimpsestic Texts Part 1)

I studied the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins for GCE A Level Eng Lit, and I still refer to his On the Origin of Beauty: A Platonic Dialogue (1865) as a theory of aesthetics worthy of application to most decorative arts, even to the descriptive passages in my fictions. 

Mind you, you would have to look very hard indeed between the lines to detect their masked presence.

However, it’s my own Theory of Palimpsestic Texts I wish to put to the test on this occasion. 

My theory proposes that, despite the most rigorous scholarship, the critic can never be sure that an ur-text is not waiting to be excavated that prefigures the literary effusion under review, whose uniqueness had seemed at first reading so promisingly sui generis.

Yes. So often when the Enchanted Reader peels away the palimpsests, the Disenchanted Reader finds older writings still legible beneath. 

Take, for instance, the love English poets have for shopping lists...

The Lure of the List.

Consider the poem, In the Valley of the Elwy, by Manley Hopkins (whom Kingsley Amis bibulously considered a neurasthenic whose spirituality was crippled by an ‘obsessive affectation of singularity’, and who should have drowned in the wreck of the Deutschland) ...

Lovely the woods, waters, meadows, combes, vales,
All the air things wear that build this world of Wales. 

Is it unfair to recall here the cadences of Tennyson, from Ulysses (1842) some thirty years earlier...

Much have I seen and known; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

But do these cadences derive from a work even earlier in the century of their youth?

Look at Wordsworth’s Composed upon Westminster Bridge of 1802 to see the lure of the list assert itself ...

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

(... although, as has been pointed out, you could also see Croydon from that point of vantage).

... Nor, I belatedly add, should we ignore the potency of this effect when observed in Milton’s Paradise Lost ...

Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Vertues, Powers . . .
. . . Princes, Potentates, Warriors, 

 

or

 

Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death . . .

 

or. yet again, 
Alice Through the Looking-Glass

 

To talk of many things: 

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —. 

Of cabbages — and kings —.

compare with Richard II

 

Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; . . .

 

Liverpudlian Precursor.

There must be a passion akin to a cataloguer’s or indexer’s or, in the case of John Lennon, aged thirteen, a nascent lyricist’s, to see a tabulated itemisation metamorphose into art; see Lennon’s Met Office Weather Report in Eskimonisian from the witty schoolboy magazine he edited, The Daily Howl (C1953) ...

Weather Report. Tomorrow will be muggy, followed by tuggy and weggy. The rest follows. ‘Ǫoglé hînķle wýrtle fóò.’ You may have noticed that it is written in Eskimonisian, especially for our Eskimonisian readers.  

Yet, that power of rhythmic memorization, which drove the precocious John Lennon to his garbled rendering of ‘Dogger, Humber, Wight, Rockall, Faeroes’ is also found in a frequently cited work by a fellow Liverpudlian (by culture not birth), the poet Carol Ann Duffy.

Her Prayer, 40 years later than Lennon’s, concludes with the moral relativist’s lines: 

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer — 

Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

Carol Ann Duffy                                     John Lennon

 

The Sisyphean Task of the Ur-Textualist.

So, in this special case of the Shipping Report, where does the ur-textualist begin an excavation? 

Maybe this comparison only goes to prove that the lyric voice of an idiot savant (a possessed tongue, in general, I mean, though the voices of John Lennon, Dylan Thomas and Arthur Rimbaud spring to mind) is likely to defeat the ur-textualist in search of the buried remains of a causality that could predate what is claimed to be a first occurrence.

Take a look at another poet, Philip Larkin, to test the Palimpsestic Effect. 

See, for instance, the end of the penultimate stanza of his magnificent Whitsun Weddings (1958) ...

I thought of London spread out in the sun,
Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:

Then refer to the opening lines of W. H. Auden’s As I walked out one evening (1937) ...

As I walked out one evening,

Walking down Bristol Street,

The crowds upon the pavement

Were fields of harvest wheat.

And compare Larkin’s ultimate line – Sent out of sight – with Sassoon’s on; on; and out of sight (Everyone Sang).

Who, then, are the precursors?

Are they, I wonder, my old friends Mr and Mrs Anon? See
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/commoners-rights-to-heroic-quatrain.html 
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/mr-and-mrs-anon.html

Here are some of the most beautiful words in the English language (Thomas Nashe’s In Time of Pestilence, 1593) ...

Brightness falls from the air,
Queens have died young and fair,
Dust hath closed Helen’s eye.
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us. 

And yet.

And yet, the oldest hand-book of English Proverbs, one that harks back to paraemiographia and Adagia collected before Thomas Nashe lived, records an English saw from the lips of the ‘inglorious’ ignoramuses (as Kingsley Amis would have it), citing this old saying ...

Fair fall truth and daylight.

The ‘Here is Where’ Formula.

However, I will sign off this posting with the reluctant acknowledgement that Kingsley Amis in his own poems could nail with savagery the egregiously unoriginal in poetry, satirizing the earnestness of those poets unblessed by a lyric tongue. 

Here, in Here Is Where (from A Case of Samples, 1956),  he damns the insipidness of certain versifiers (just open the pages of the New Yorker from any issue in the last four decades and you’ll find any number of such formulaic constructions).

                                 Here, where the ragged water
                                 Is twilled and spun over
                                 Pebbles backed like beetles,
                                 Bright as beer-bottles,
                                 Bits of it like snow beaten,
                                 Or milk boiling in saucepan ...

                                 Going well so far, eh?

Ah. 

When things start writing themselves you should know that it’s truly time to stop.

Afterthought.

In the end, though (vis-à-vis originality), I think certain writers in English of an acquired sensibility must recognise, as Amis points out, that they are very often merely hangers on in a proscriptive system of artistry that constrains them to travel clustered in the same orbit, hung in perfect equipoise between the gravitational pull of mundanities and the limitless attractions of the cosmos, because they have all attained exactly the same critical mass.

 

Liverpudlian post-post-scriptum.

(30-09-13) I have just viewed for the first time the opening of Liverpudlian Terence Davies’s Distant Voices, Still Lives (1988), a movie about working class life in 1940s Liverpool, which begins with a radio Shipping Forecast voiceover ... a rather too familiar device for conveying emotional weather that seems to bear out my foregoing remarks