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THE READER
EMAIL magazine@thereader.org.uk
WEBSITE www.thereader.org.uk
BLOG www.thereaderonline.co.uk
ISBN 978-0-9558733-4-8
COVER Tracey Emin ‘For You’ ; adapted from photograph by Barry Hale
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ABOUT THE READER ORGANISATION
Jane Davis, Director, The Reader Organisation
A Reading Revolution!
We used this quotation in 1997 in the very f irst issue of The Reader magazine. The
Reader Organisation didn’t exist then, it was just a few friends who wanted to open
up the exciting experiences we were having teaching the Literature programme in
the Department of Continuing Education at the University of Liverpool. We were
running evening and weekend classes for adults willing to read and make real books
from Saul Bellow to Chaucer, via Shakespeare, H. G. Wells and Ann Michaels.
Twelve years on and this magazine, which has been in continuous production ever
since, is the voice of an independent charity which is bringing about a Reading
Revolution: putting great books in the hands of people who need them.
Amongst other activities, The Reader Organisation is currently delivering 128 weekly
read-aloud shared ‘Get Into Reading’ groups on Merseyside, and supporting the de-
velopment of many more across the UK and beyond, particularly through our Read
to Lead training programme. We work in schools, workplaces, community groups
and old people’s homes, and a great deal of our work is delivered in partnership
with the NHS.
One in four people will suffer poor mental health at some point in their life. Shared
reading of great books is a simple way to provide ‘something real to carry home’.
THE READER
CONTENTS
EDITORIAL ESSAYS
7 Philip Davis 12 Catherine Pickstock
The Reading Revolution ‘For You’ by Tracey Emin
Neon Installation in
POETRY Liverpool Cathedral
10 Face to Face 14 Philip Davis
18 Tom Paulin The Man Said, No
27 Les Murray 21 Paul Kingsnorth
32 Connie Bensley The Gathering Storm
42 Nigel Prentice 54 Gabriella Gruder-Poni
62 Richard Meier The Reader Gets Angry:
70 Eleanor Cooke Scenes from a PGCE
81 David Sollors
INTERVIEW
THE POET ON HIS WORK 33 Kenneth Hesketh
49 John Greening On the Nature of Things
4
THE READER
5
© Scott Douglas
– Tracey Emin
On ‘For You’, her installation in the Anglican Cathedral
6
editorial
Philip Davis
I n this issue, as you can see from our cover, The Reader is to be found
loitering and looking in at the entrance to Liverpool’s Anglican Ca-
thedral, accompanied by the artist Tracey Emin and the composer
Kenneth Hesketh. Samuel Johnson, that worried and ever-lapsing
believer, tells us that a friend of his, invited to offer frank criticism,
once accused him of lack of Christian love or charity:
johnson: And when I questioned him what occasion I had given
for such an animadversion, all that he could say amounted to
this – that I sometimes contradicted people in conversation.
Now what harm does it do to any man to be contradicted?
interviewer (helpfully): I suppose he meant the manner of doing
it; roughly – and harshly.
johnson: And who is the worse for that?
interviewer (discomfited, placatory): It hurts people of weak
nerves.
johnson (fortissimo): I know of no such weak-nerved people!
7
editorial
8
editorial
Editor’s Picks
In this issue Frank Cottrell Boyce gives us his own short story and also
provides the first of The Reader’s new occasional series ‘Books for your
Children’ (Frank has seven). At the other end of the age-spectrum, Tom
Paulin gives us his translation of Sophocles’ blinded old Oedipus at-
tended by his daughters, while Angela Macmillan launches her new
regular reading list (‘Books About’) by starting with the theme ‘Fathers
and Sons’. We have the opening chapters of Richard Flanagan’s new
novel Wanting, new poetry by our Australian editor Les Murray, and a
new guest panelist on the jury of Readers Connect
For the latest news from the The Reader magazine and the Reader
Organisation’s growing Get Into Reading project, for poetry, reviews and
video fun and spotlights on the bookish world at large please visit our
blog and leave a comment.
You can also subscribe online and find great offers on back issues.
9
Face to Face
POET BIOGRAPHIES
Featured on page 32
10
Richard Meier Tom Paulin Nigel Prentice
11
essay
Catherine Pickstock
12
essay
13
essay
Philip Davis
14
essay
15
essay
canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth.’ To which the
father straightway cried out and said with tears: ‘Lord, I believe; help
thou mine unbelief.’ It is the second half of that utterance – more than
the first, but also impossible without it – which is the real language of
belief, precisely for incorporating doubt within itself. Thus too George
Herbert pleading to God at the end of ‘Affliction (1)’: ‘Let me not love
thee, if I love thee not.’ For this robust way includes in its tough sense
of human fallenness the self-suspicion lest the turn to the second life
is no more than psychological compensation for the failure of the first
one. Public figures brought down by scandal suddenly born again into
charitable good works; repentance reached on the day of execution:
beneath the omniscience of God, it is on a knife’s edge of plausibility as
to how far these conversions are indeed authentic or inauthentic. Even
the protagonist himself cannot be sure. In ‘To Heaven’ Ben Jonson says
robustly in his sorrows ‘I know my state, both full of shame, and scorn’,
‘I feel my griefs too’ – but also fears lest those prayers of his to God
should be ‘For weariness of life, not love of thee’.
‘Not’, ‘no’, ‘unbelief’: this is the language of positive incapability at
the wits’ end of what is human, volunteering to what is almost shame-
fully but also involuntarily inadequate. It (whatever is to become its
name) all begins, not ends, with No – as in Luther’s great Protestant
declaration, ‘Here I stand, I can do no other. God help me. Amen.’
When I say such is the real language of belief, ‘real’ is a word I take
from John Henry Newman, in particular from ‘Unreal Words’ in his
Parochial and Plain Sermons (5.3). There Newman recalls how to the
young man who lightly called Him ‘Good Master’ (‘Good master, what
shall I do that I may inherit eternal life?’), Christ replied, ‘Why callest
thou Me good?’ as though implicitly bidding him weigh his words (Mark
10. 17-18). ‘Words have a meaning,’ says Newman, ‘whether we mean
that meaning or not; and they are imputed to us in their real meaning,
when our not meaning it is our own fault. He who takes God’s Name in
vain, is not counted guiltless because he means nothing by it.’ To mean
the meaning, to inhabit and take personal responsibility for one’s words
as for oneself: that is the ‘real’ – in my judgment itself a far deeper word
than ‘honest’ or ‘sincere’ or ‘authentic’, because so riskily committed to
its faltering language even as ‘I think I do’ is.
But the reality of such language does not rest merely in its vocabu-
16
essay
lary. The great Old Testament example in this respect comes from Job
speaking, from the midst of his suffering, of his paradoxical relation to
God – thus:
Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him: but I will maintain
mine own ways before him. (Job 13.15)
It seems likely now that this, taken from the Authorised King James
Version, is a mistranslation. ‘Let him slay me’ it begins, but the second
clause may be better rendered as the more easily compatible ‘I have no
hope’ – though just possibly it may still be ‘in him I will hope’. Even so,
literal or not, the Authorised Version retains its place through centuries
of usage, in resonant memory of the Hebraic tradition of a loyal oppo-
sition to the Lord, of arguing with God precisely through a protesting
faith in Him. Thus what is most powerfully real in Job’s saying is the
syntax, the English connectives that create it: ‘Though he slay me, yet
will I trust in him: but I will maintain mine own ways before him.’
It is important that the three clauses are in that order – and no other
more conventionally pious or apologetic version – and returning still to
‘mine own ways’, my own personal sense of justice however inadvert-
ently flawed, rather than become religiously unreal. ‘Religion’ itself is
a temptation; that is why the whole experiential shape of faith has to
be self-checking, in that great phrase of Newman’s ‘saying and unsay-
ing to a positive result’. But it is even more important that, for all their
contradictions and their conflict, somehow – the sentence says, because
it is one sentence – somehow all three positions can be held together, and
passionately are so in a life. He slay me; I trust him; I maintain mine
own ways. It is like a version of what Tertullian said of God – ‘Credo quia
impossibile est’: I believe in the reality of this utterance precisely because
it is well-nigh impossible.
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.
It cannot be but (he says, in the silent aftermath of wonder) it is: George
Herbert’s amazed recovery from the long dark night of depression in
‘The Flower’. ‘I am he’: you could not make it up, you could not reason
it, unless you found and felt it on different lines from the normal lines
of life and time. In its still unresolved movement through the midst of
its own difficulties, not yet anywhere near the point of Herbert’s recov-
ery, Job’s ‘though, yet, but’ is profoundly robust, stumbling yet upright,
faithful yet defiant with it.
17
poetry
tom Paulin
Tom Paulin writes, ‘I did a version of Antigone for Field Day in 1984, then
a version of Prometheus Bound for the Open University classical civilization
course. I saw Oedipus Rex at the National last year and thought it would be
good to try the two Oedipus plays. I then went on to do Medea which Barry
Rutter’s Northern Broadsides in Halifax are going to do next spring. My Antig-
one, The Riot Act, was done in Northern-Irish English.’
THESEUS
And how could war break out
between these nations?
OEDIPUS
Know son of Aegeus
know most gentle son
the gods alone
neither age nor die.
But all things else
all-powerful time disturbs.
The earth it wastes away.
The body wastes and faith
dies out too
and so distrust is born.
18
poetry
CHORUS
Though he has watched the time go by
sometimes a man will still desire the world.
That man I say he has no wisdom.
The hours pass by.
They rack up pain.
And as for pleasure
an old old man
can find it nowhere in this world.
Better than thought and speech
is never to be born.
19
poetry
20
Essay
Paul Kingsnorth
21
essay
22
essay
23
essay
24
essay
but our literary lions have better things to read. Their art remains stuck
in its own civilised bubble. The big names of contemporary literature are
equally at home in the fashionable quarters of London or New York, and
their writing reflects the prejudices of the placeless, transnational elite
to which they belong.
But the converse also applies. Those voices which tell other stories
tend to be rooted in a sense of place. Think of John Berger’s novels and
essays from the Haute Savoie, or the depths explored by Alan Garner
within a day’s walk of his birthplace in Cheshire. Think of Wendell
Berry or W. S. Merwin, Mary Oliver or Cormac McCarthy. These are
writers who know their place, in the physical sense, and who remain
wary of the siren cries of metrovincial fashion and civilised excitement.
They are, in their own ways, examples of what is possible.
The Dark Mountain Project was launched in July. So far we have
printed our manifesto, in a limited edition of 300 copies, we have set
up a website as a hub for the project and have held a launch event,
but these are just the first salvos. We are planning more events, from
storytelling evenings to mini festivals, and we plan, in 2010, to launch
the first issue of the Dark Mountain journal. Most of all, we are looking
to meet people to whom the project appeals. We want to discover new
writers and move in new directions. Time may be short, so there is none
to lose.
25
LES MURRAY
26
poetry
les murray
27
poetry
Hesiod On Bushf ire
28
your regulars
Ian McMillan
I sent an email to a mate of mine the other day where I said, rather
pretentiously I reckon, that ‘I always return to the Avant Garde as
my default mode’. It’s true, though: if in doubt, in art and music
as well as poetry, I always look for the stuff I can’t understand
straight away, the music that my wife calls ‘squeaky gate music’
and the art that makes people cross because they reckon a kid could
have done it with a toy brush. ‘Avant Garde? Aven’t practised’ as my pal
Darren said. Well, that may be the case but it certainly makes for fasci-
nating listening, looking and reading. Especially reading.
Recently I’ve come across two books of interestingly difficult poetry
that have made me see the world in a different way, and maybe that’s all
we can ask of poetry. The books are Sills, by Michael O’Brien, published
by Salt, and Tom Raworth’s Collected Poems published by Carcanet. I just
can’t read these poems in isolation, forbidding as they sometimes are: I
find that reading knotty and slippery writing helps me to appreciate the
world around me.
In Barnsley, where I live, we’ve got a new bus station, a bold state-
ment of intent in a town that’s reinventing itself after decades of neglect.
The bus station is brightly coloured, it reminds me of images I’ve seen
of Barcelona, and it’s fair to say that it divides opinion. Some people,
me included, love it. Some people can’t stand it: they think it looks
29
your regulars
30
your regulars
31
poetry
connie bensley
after WHA
32
interview
Described as ‘...a composer who both has something to say and the means
to say it’, Kenneth Hesketh (b. 1968 Liverpool) has received numerous com-
missions from international ensembles and organisations. A prodigy, he
studied at the Royal College of Music, later in America with Henri Dutilleux
and was subsequently awarded a scholarship from the Toepfer Foundation,
Hamburg, at the behest of Sir Simon Rattle. In 2007 he was made Composer
in the House with the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra. Hesketh’s
music is broad in its range of stimuli, covering classical architecture, medi-
eval iconography, poetry and Bauhaus constructivism. He lives in London
and is a professor at the RCM and University of Liverpool.
33
KENNETH HESKETH
34
interview
bly coming back at you. It seemed as if the numinous took tangible form
in the echo, the dominance of the building, the mist of sound all around
you. It affects visitors and worshippers alike. In services, the congrega-
tion, choir and organ sound together almost as if the building reverberates
sympathetically. A timelessness – sound followed by what seemed an eon
of resonance. The grand organ, the grand ceremony, the ritual and the
text, the seeming profundity of space and echo, all left their mark on me.
I associated emotion with music and text from a very young age.
There was one particular occasion that’s significant: I used to have
to set out the service music on certain nights – usually after evensong.
Organist Ian Tracey, I think, was practising and there was no one else in
the nave, central space or choir areas. As choristers are wont to do, I ran
from the furthest bay of the nave up to the altar experiencing a Doppler
effect as I did so due to my relative position to the organ’s sound. A
shift in pitch occurred similar to when a police car siren approaches and
recedes due to the pitch-waves contracting and enlarging. That moment
has stayed with me ever since. I try to play with that kind of sound
– active musical figures fighting for clarity against a heightened acousti-
cal resonance, the music bathing in a reverberating, embryonic fluid.
Was it important that this was a cathedral and not just a fine concert hall?
At that point the Anglican Cathedral was the only place that afforded
me real musical training. Singing was already a part of my life, which
is why I went to audition there, but after joining I was also given piano
lessons and other basic theoretical training. From about the age of ten,
I was composing. Would this have happened elsewhere? Probably not.
I didn’t have an especially religious background but religion and faith
started to mean more as I got older through various Cathedral events,
as well as through various friends who were beginning to examine their
faith and who they were in regards to a God. I tried to take part in all of
that for a while. But I was never really comfortable with it. What has
remained with me from that time, and experience of organised religion,
is that sense of ritual, the beauty of text supporting music and a sense of
tangible numinousity which may lead to another way of experiencing. Is
there something beyond that? I would say no.
Say something more about your background.
My folks still live in Kirkdale, a hard neighbourhood at least during
my lifetime. Moving from that milieu to the more rarefied one of the
Cathedral was initially overwhelming. If one shows an aptitude for
something, one wants to consolidate upon that and progress, and that
would not have happened by staying around Kirkdale. In the Cathedral
I was surrounded by quite a few interesting and capable youngsters. It
was a case of adapting and keeping up.
35
interview
36
interview
37
interview
time to rethink. When people say, ‘That was wonderful, let’s have some
more of that’ it‘s easy to continue along the well-trod path.
In a piece At God Speeded Summer’s End, which I think you once said was
a turning-point for you, the relation of acceleration and retardation is very close.
It feels as though sometimes it is holding back a feeling that it’s therefore pushing
forward. I kept thinking what does it mean? Is it to do with the sense of ending?
Perhaps it has something to do with rushing towards a void. The desire
to jump from a high building which must be fought against. I’m always
aware of it – rushing towards, pulling back. Funnily enough, the title of
the work is taken from Dylan Thomas’s ‘Author’s Prologue’. 102 lines in
total, the first 51 lines of the poem rhyme, in reverse order, with the last
51 – an aural palindrome. ‘At God Speeded Summer’s End’ is the only
line that doesn’t change. It opens:
This day winding down now
At God speeded summer’s end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house . . .
Out there, crow black, men
Tackled with clouds, who kneel
To the sunset nets,
Geese nearly in heaven . . .
38
interview
Craft and meaning evolve over time; I get to the structural heart of a work
much more quickly these days. Architecture and the study of rhetoric are
two of my many interests. Both are ways of supporting and expanding
a core idea; a scaffolding that supports the act of creation, which, once
removed, leaves you with what has been produced by the mould-shape.
Tell me about your piece which I’ve just been listening to, ‘Graven Image’.
It’s a short piece, just fifteen minutes, and is conceived as a musical ‘stele’
or marker stone, something which marks the having been. I wanted to call
it ‘Stele’ but the title had already been used. In this piece, the retracing and
embellishment of things is important, as it is in my work generally. One
idea may have been previously perceived but elements of that idea progres-
sively take over, evolve. Ideas never actually return, something is always
just out of grasp. Such will-o-the-wisp ideas are very attractive – seeking
furtive patterns in chaos, looking at the night sky and joining indis-
tinct dots of light. There are structures in the music that should always
materialise otherwise it wouldn’t work, but in live performances, through
acoustic vagaries or the unexpected dynamic of individual players, certain
things will emerge in different ways at different times. It’s not that we’ll
hear more ‘melody’ or ‘harmony’ – different textural elements take on
greater importance which in some circumstances are submerged whilst in
others are in relief. Those aspects create a dynamic quality in my work.
The emotive quality in my music should communicate, it is a strong
need within me. When one experiences any art, one questions it at a
deeper level. To agree with it or to be repulsed by it. Such dichotomies
I try to project in my work in various ways, for example via density –
loud, soft, full, narrow. There are moments when things scream at one
and times where one can hardly make out any clarity, it’s too hushed,
packed with cotton wool. In trying to make sense of the actual musical
narrative the influence of abstract theatre shows itself in my work, a
drama working itself out.
That seems urgent and personal. Say more about that loudness and quietness.
I could mention my mother’s deafness caused through meningitis when
she was a very young child. When I was growing up there were moments
when she would communicate her frustration at her deafness through
shouting, just to make herself understood, and at other times through
absolute quiet when a situation didn’t require verbal articulation. The
memory of sound in the cathedral is a useful example here as well. A
loud organ chord is utterly different when you’re standing not five yards
away from it compared to when you’re downstairs in the building. One is
crystal clear, the other muffled, almost underwater. I think of the build-
ing in terms akin to a grotto, an otherworld into which one retreats, is
changed, and from which one emerges. The loud and muffled, an often
39
interview
40
interview
41
poetry
nigel Prentice
Climbers
42
fiction
Richard Flanagan
43
RICHARD FLANAGAN
© Bronwyn Rennex
44
fiction
consumptive. They were, he said – and remarkably it did now seem – all
that remained of the once feared Van Diemonian tribes that for so long
had waged relentless and terrible war.
Those who saw them said it was hard to believe that such a small
and wretched bunch could have defied the might of the Empire for so
long, that they could have survived the pitiless extermination, that they
could have been the instruments of such fear and terror. It wasn’t clear
what the preacher had said to the blacks, or what the blacks thought
he was going to do with them, but they seemed amenable, if somewhat
sad, as broken party after broken party were embarked on boat after
boat and taken to a distant island that lay in the hundreds of miles of
sea that separated Van Diemen’s Land from the Australian mainland.
Here the preacher took on the official title of Protector and a salary of
£500 a year, along with a small garrison of soldiers and a Catechist, and
set about raising his sable charges to the level of English civilisation.
He met with some successes, and, though these were small, it was
on such he tried to concentrate. And were they not worthy? Were his
people not knowledgeable of God and Jesus, as was evidenced by their
ready and keen answers to the Catechist’s questions, and evinced in
their enthusiastic hymn-singing? Did they not take keenly to the weekly
market, where they traded skins and shell necklaces for beads and
tobacco and the like? Other than that his black brethren kept dying
almost daily, it had to be admitted the settlement was satisfactory in
every way.
Some things, however, were frankly perplexing. Though he was
weaning them off their native diet of berries and plants and shellfish
and game, and onto flour and sugar and tea, their health seemed in no
way comparable to what it had been. And the more they took to English
blankets and heavy English clothes, abandoning their licentious naked-
ness, the more they coughed and spluttered and died. And the more
they died, the more they wanted to cast off their English clothes and
stop eating their English food and move out of their English homes,
which they said were filled with the Devil, and return to the pleasures
of the hunt of a day and the open fire of a night.
It was 1839. The first photograph of a man was taken, Abd al-Qadir
declared a jihad against the French, and Charles Dickens was rising to
greater fame with a novel called Oliver Twist. It was, thought the Protec-
tor as he closed the ledger after another post mortem report and returned
to preparing notes for his pneumatics lecture, inexplicable.
fiction
On hearing the news of the child’s death from a servant who had rushed
from Charles Dickens’ home, John Forster had not hesitated – hesita-
tion was a sign of a failure of character, and his own character did not
permit failure. Mastiff-faced, full-bodied and goosebellied, heavy in all
things – opinion, sensibility, morality and conversation – Forster was
to Dickens as gravity to a balloonist. Though not above mimicking him
in private, Dickens was immensely fond of his unofficial secretary, on
whom he relied for all manner of work and advice.
And Forster, inordinately proud of being so relied on, decided he
would wait until Dickens had given his speech. In spite of Forster’s
ongoing arguments that recent events excused Dickens from the
necessity of addressing the General Theatrical Fund, he had been un-
wavering that he would. Why, even that very day Forster had called on
Dickens at Devonshire Terrace to urge him one last time to cancel the
engagement.
‘But I’ve promised,’ said Dickens, whom Forster had found in the
garden playing with his younger children. He had in his arms his ninth
child, the baby Dora, and he’d lifted her above his head, smiling up at
her and blowing through his lips as she beat her arms up and down,
fierce and solemn as a regimental drummer. ‘No, no; I could not let us
down like that.’
Forster had swelled, but said nothing. Us! He knew Dickens some-
times thought of himself more as an actor than a writer. It was a
nonsense, but it was him. Dickens loved theatre. He loved everything
to do with that world of make-believe, where the moon might be sum-
moned down with a flourish of a finger, and Forster knew Dickens felt a
strange solidarity with the actor members of the troupers’ charity, which
he was to address that evening. This attraction to the more disreputable
both slightly troubled and slightly thrilled Forster.
‘She looks well, don’t you think?’ Dickens had said, lowering the
baby to his chest. ‘She’s had a slight fever today, haven’t you, Dora?’ He
kissed her forehead. ‘But I think she’s picking up now.’
And now, only a few short hours later, how splendidly Dickens’
speech was going, thought Forster. The crowd was extensive, its atten-
tion rapt, and Dickens, once started, as brilliant and moving as ever.
‘In our Fund,’ Dickens was saying to the crowded hall of actors, ‘the
word exclusiveness is not known. We include every actor, whether he
is Hamlet or Benedict: this ghost, that bandit, or, in his one person, the
whole King’s army. And to play their parts before us, these actors come
from scenes of sickness, of suffering, aye, even of death itself. Yet –’
46
fiction
47
JOHN GREENING
The poet on his work
John Greening
49
the poet on his work
a row
of dying
elms
the crack
of frost
the cry
of lapwings
And the very sparseness of the verse, learnt from certain Americans, lets
that wind from the Urals into the language. If it is Hughes’s Crow who
comes to mind in ‘who owns these screams? / who lives to scream so?
/ who dies in such screaming?’, it is Geoffrey Hill’s Offa who dominates
elsewhere. For Offa, however, read Cnot:
at last a
place with no
enemies
under the
centre
beam, Bunyan
sang
50
the poet on his work
Booth’s lines teeter on the edge, they sing indeed: a harsh song of the
1970s, a voice that has not dated any more than Bob Dylan’s.
A Knotting Sequence weaves us in and out of time, to Cnot’s era and
back again, knotting and unknotting, reminding us that past and
present are inseparable (‘you / share this / place with // me’): there is a
dynamic dialogue of letters, insults, backstabbings and tokens of affec-
tion between the poet and his alter-ego. Sometimes the ‘not’ in ‘Cnot’
seems to define him; but the poet too can be grumpily negative. Neither
speaker can quite be pinned down. When Booth is happily boozing with
a friend in ‘The Blasphemers’, he cannot avoid remembering his fore-
runner: ‘Cnot / lying in the fields / demanded / mead’. Elsewhere, the
death of his dog moves him to ask Cnot to
love
him by
proxy until
I join
you a hundred
metres from
here
and feed
him more
of the bones he
always found in
furrows and
ditches
yours
The overall effect of The Knotting Sequence is of a broken mosaic, the kind
still lying under many fields in Eastern England; but Booth’s poems are
not impenetrable fragments of modernism, rather pieces of passionately
felt loyalty to a place, a role. Here is Bedfordshire Booth watching a
muntjac escapee from Woburn ‘stutter and / cough through / the dusk’
or imagining the author of Pilgrim’s Progress preaching under the tree
that goes to restore Knotting’s church; Everyman Booth trying to start
his car, complaining about the twisting Anglo-Saxon lanes, jetting off
to Vienna or New York (but thinking all the while about an ash-tree he
planted at home); Hunter Booth after rabbits or hares; Naturalist Booth
studying mushrooms, noting a Little Owl or a peregrine, the timeless
cutting and digging processes of farming, pondering the crassness of
human attempts at improvement (‘what / disgrace of / beauty suggested
to / the Eastern / Electricity Generating / Board, to / erect a grey / relay
transmitter / box upon / a stiffened / pine pole in / a direct line between
51
the poet on his work
***
Some years ago, after a Good Friday walk with my family around a new
nature reserve in Knotting, conscious of so many shades at my elbow
(even Robert Southey had connections with this tiny place), I wrote the
following poem. It is, I realise now, an excessively literary piece of work,
revelling too much in its own wit and allusion (Pye strikes me as par-
ticularly indigestible), but the very name ‘Knotting’ suggested a proud
show of filigree, conjuring Elizabethan gardens and Arthurian quests.
Nor could I resist the fact that merlins were rumoured to haunt the area,
that Booth’s press had been called ‘Sceptre’. ‘Knotting’, then, became
an exercise in what Charles Tomlinson has called ‘healing artifice’.
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the poet on his work
Knotting
In memory of Martin Booth (1944-2004)
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Gabriella Gruder-Poni
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phones and celebrities; therefore, we’ll give them lessons about mobile
phones and celebrities.’ There was no notion that education ought to
expand one’s horizons, or that students might enjoy being introduced
to new ideas. The teachers were fatalists: the students are as they are,
and we’re not going to change them. But their fatalism was self-righ-
teous rather than regretful. Once I prepared a worksheet on paragraph
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they’re learning the semicolon not just for this project’, I thought. This
was not the worst of my crimes though. Mr. B— warned me against
exposing secondary school students to ‘abstract ideas’, a reference, I
suppose, to ‘balance and contrast’. What is an abstract idea? Don’t the
basics of arithmetic and grammar involve abstractions? I think he had
in mind any kind of learning that went beyond mimicking formulae; he
might as well have warned me not to expose the students to ideas, full
stop. He recommended teaching the students one use of the semicolon
each year all through secondary school. There are really only two uses of
the semicolon, and as I was trying to figure out if he could possibly be
serious he said something much more shocking: ‘This is a mechanical
way of writing, but it will get them a C at GCSE, which is all these stu-
dents need to do what they want to do in life’. But these were very good
students! And they were only twelve years old – how did he know what
they wanted to do in life?! I listened in shock as he tried to impress upon
me how dim the students were, how useless to explain ‘ideas’ to them.
After that lesson I was forbidden to teach that Year 8 class again. Oc-
casionally I heard Mr. B— regaling his colleagues in the staff room with
tales of the stupid things his students had said. I couldn’t help thinking,
‘Do you take no responsibility for your students’ ignorance?’
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essay
Which is Mr. F—’s real reason for wishing to keep students in ignorance:
this perverse belief that illiteracy is something precious that ought to be
preserved, or the contempt for students that he betrayed to me?
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the hope that I would be able to practise this essential skill, and I had
looked forward to getting to know my students as students, as think-
ers. How was that going to happen if we weren’t allowed to exchange
ideas and interpretations? I suspect that the reasons for the ban on class
discussion go beyond the question of how many students were partici-
pating or taking notes; my supervisor harboured a deep antipathy to
debate. In one unpleasant interview Mr. F— said, ‘It’s clear that you’re
cooperating, but it’s clear too that you still have your own ideas. This
must change.’ I admitted to having opinions. That wasn’t enough for
him. ‘They’re beliefs, not opinions … You’re wrong, you’re just wrong.’
My lesson on All Quiet on the Western Front was finally deemed unsat-
isfactory because I wasn’t thinking enough about ‘the students’ needs’.
My supervisor never elaborated, but soon I came to see that many stu-
dents did indeed have desperate needs: about one third of them could
barely read. Before my year in a comprehensive school I hadn’t under-
stood what functional illiteracy was; I’d never imagined that there were
so many intermediate stages between not reading and reading. Many of
my students were mired in a twilight zone between literacy and illitera-
cy: they knew the letters of the alphabet (if not always their order); they
could sound out most monosyllables; and they could understand short,
simple sentences consisting of short, simple words. Anything beyond
that and they were at sea. This meant that anything that might engage
their interest was too difficult, or at least, too difficult to be enjoyable,
and so they fell further and further behind.
One might imagine that a lot of time would be devoted to remedial
reading. Nothing could be further from the truth. Widespread illiter-
acy was an acknowledged fact in the school, but it was never treated
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61
poetry
richard meier
To A New Teacher
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the reading revolution
Jen Tomkins
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THE reading revolution
just say it. Don’t put it into flowery language and make us interpret
it.’ Speaking as a business man, he has a point. But, to quote Mamet,
you can’t bluff someone who’s not paying attention. Literary language
allows us to communicate in a more powerful way, ‘you cup your hands
/ And gulp from them the dailiness of life’ (‘Well Water’). To my great
surprise, after taking part in the session, the man’s parting comment
was an admission, to all in the room, that he kept a folder full of quotes
from novels, biographies and essays in a file at work. This is something
that I don’t think he would have shared with his colleagues in other
circumstances. William Morris said, ‘It took me years to understand
that words are often as important as experience, because words make
experience last.’
We’re reading Paradise Lost in my Get Into Reading group at the Blue-
coat. It’s a journey we’re undertaking not without fear. Here Sin (Satan’s
child, and bride) is speaking:
Pensive here I sat
Alone, but long I sat not, till my womb
Pregnant by thee, and now excessive grown
Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes.
At last this odious offspring whom thou seest
Thine own begotten, breaking violent way
Tore through my entrails, that with fear and pain
Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew
Transform’d: but he my inbred enemie
Forth issu’d, brandishing his fatal Dart
Made to destroy: I fled, and cry’d out Death;
Hell trembl’d at the hideous Name, and sigh’d
From all her Caves, and back resounded Death.
Just before this passage, we discover that Satan ‘gave birth’ to Sin in
Heaven, ‘a goddess armed / Out of thy head I sprung’. Now we learn
that Sin gave birth to Death, Satan’s son. ‘But Sin doesn’t need to really
exist, it’s just that Satan’s given birth to the idea of Sin’ was the response
from a group member called Eliot (or so I’ll call him here), who often
says little in the discussion. At this point he started to understand the
text as an allegory for being human. The insight that Satan can ‘think’
of Sin and that it is this created thought which will be what eventually
infects the human race: this was an inspiration in the group that week.
‘Oh, and I hope you notice that Sin’s a woman!’, he added.
Here’s a selection of poems for you that we’ve recently enjoyed in
the group: ‘I Am’ by John Clare; ‘Telling Stories’ by Elizabeth Jennings;
‘Trust’ by D. H. Lawrence; ‘As Kingfishers Catch Fire’ by Gerard Manley
Hopkins; and ‘The Seed’ by Hal Summers. Try them yourselves.
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doing
Ciara Rutherford
In the second year of her English studies, Katie Baker visited the Mossley Hill
Hospital which specialises in treating people with advanced dementia. Here she
experienced at first hand how literature can help people with neurological prob-
lems rediscover old memories:
Often, the literature that was most popular with the group members
were poems which evoked happy and positive memories for them.
Because of the condition from which they suffered, reminiscence was an
important tool for everybody within the group, often suddenly seizing
their interest in something from their past which connected them to
themselves, to the poem and to one another. Frequently we would read
a piece of literature together that would spark off memories and often a
conversation between the entire group – sometimes even a group recita-
tion. It was gratifying to realise that the literature I take for granted has
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the ability to reach people who may not otherwise have had experience
of it. In this way, communities can be created from people that can find
common ground in literature, even if they have never really taken a
great interest in reading before. By the time I finished at Mossley Hil, I
really felt that we had become a proper reading ‘community’, and it was
always a pleasure to hear people telling stories from their past as a result
of the literature we had read together. I learned that ultimately reading
is a great help, even for people who have become mentally isolated, in
gaining trust and coming together.’
Maria Shmygol, also in her second year as an English Literature student, led a
reading group in a mental health day centre.
‘One of the rewarding and mentally stretching things about the project
for us was that it encouraged us to engage with literature that wasn’t
part of our university syllabus and perhaps even discover texts that we
had never read before. During the first few weeks of being a group-
leader at the Crown Street Mental Health Day Centre I brought along
some pieces of literature that I had personally enjoyed in the hopes that
I could share them with my group – a few poems by Christina Ros-
setti and a short story by Anton Chekhov, which, as I rather awkwardly
found out, were not the best things to start a group off on. I found
my salvation in several poems by Yeats, Wordsworth and other ‘greats’
with whom the group was already familiar, though initially I was not.
The reading material was really well received, especially Coleridge’s ‘To
Nature’, which provoked a discussion about individual experiences of
nature and the seasons. One regular member of the group who was
usually shy had a go at reading the poem and stayed to discuss it, which
was a pleasing surprise because he didn’t usually stay in the group, pre-
ferring to sit in his room.’
In her 3rd year of undergraduate study, Emma Hayward visited the Lauries
Centre in Birkenhead, for people with mental or physical health problems. At the
Centre Emma discovered how enthusiastic her group members were, and how
much they enjoyed debating the texts they were reading:
‘“I am going to have withdrawal symptoms” announced the group
member who had just closed Great Expectations. Although it was the end
of a book it was my first time volunteering with the Get Into Reading
project at The Lauries Centre in Birkenhead and I was astonished by this
person’s complete conviction and engagement with the novel. For him,
reading and discussing this novel each week had become necessary, not
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just desired. I soon learnt however, that it was not just a withdrawal
from Great Expectations, or from Dickens in general, but a withdrawal
from any book, play or poem that was to be concluded.
Reading back over my journals of my time with the group, I re-
discovered just how much each member connected with the works
we were reading and not solely on an emotional level but on a liter-
ary, philosophical and academic level as well. The members of this
group absolutely relished telling me why they disagreed with me, why
they thought something in the book did not work or indeed why they
thought it did. I wanted the group to become exposed to so much more
literature, knowing that they had the potential and willingness to tackle
any genre and subject matter. On my final day I was sad to say goodbye
to the people I had argued with so enjoyably. The most profound thing
that I learnt during my placement was how successful reading aloud
and together really was. Each new voice pulled something out of the
text that other group members were not conscious of. As I left then, I
was not only sad but also a little envious because they got to stay and
read the next chapter together.’
(At a recent Reading in Practice conference, showcasing the volunteer
work, Emma spoke of how her experience of the reading group right at
the end of her degree had made her aware of withdrawal symptoms of
her own. She has now returned to full-time postgraduate study on the
MA in Contemporary Literature.)
Eleanor McCann visited the Kevin White Unit, a drug detox centre. She saw there
the potentially therapeutic benefits of reading.
‘As a group, we have used books as a tool for instantly engaging with
strangers, as a resource for broaching delicate, deeply personal subjects
and even as a kind of medicine: at the Kevin White Unit, a drug detox
centre that I visited, the reading group gives a period of respite to people
suffering from the initial stages of withdrawal. To watch an illiterate
man there listening intently as a text is read aloud and suggesting per-
ceptive ideas about what he has heard is truly magical. The Get Into
Reading project has allowed me to see that reading can offer a common
ground and give people an opportunity to do something both challeng-
ing and healing even during times of adversity. As an English student,
it has been so rewarding to implement my learning in a vocational way,
a way that really does matter. It’s so easy for undergraduate students
to get sucked into the “let’s get wrecked” culture: this kind of project
means you don’t have to settle for that.’
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the reading revolution
‘I am now a bit clearer about what it is that literature does for us that is
so important. I’ve always known but never really had to, or felt the need
to, express it in a clear way. Exam papers and essay questions are usually
more particular and less philosophically orientated. But I see how in
reading a story or a poem a voice speaks to us and it happens only in
our own mind… We don’t have to worry about what other people think
or say about what the voice means, what matters is that each of us has
our own receptive inwardness, a relation that is subjective and unique
to us. Because of this we can allow literature to say things to us that it
would be too uncomfortable to hear from some other voice outside of
us. Literature can work safely, without being seen or heard, without
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The most important aspect of the project was the impact literature had
on the members of our reading groups. One of the most gratifying and
positive things that happened was seeing how the reading each week
opened up the members of the group. It enabled them to reminisce and
tell stories from their past, it enabled them to make conversations with
people they may otherwise not have spoken to, and above all, it enabled
them simply to come together, to have something in common and to
take something from each piece that mattered to them. When members
of the group said things like ‘that was the most relaxed I’ve felt all
day’, or just simply that they will come back next week, you know that
your time has been well spent. We hope this account of the project will
serve as an inspiration for students or members of the public who have
thought about getting involved in Get Into Reading, and demonstrate
that projects of this kind ought to be a vital aspect of any English Lit-
erature degree.
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poetry
eleanor cooke
Model
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YOUR regulars
a world elsewhere
Jane Davis
“Despising,
For you the city, thus I turn my back:
There is a world elsewhere.”
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your regulars
Those are my italics on ‘how’ and ‘what’; those questioning words point
to the dynamic relation of idea and action: a sort of reversal and confirma-
tion of Nietzsche’s bewilderingly circular aphorism, ‘We become what we
are’. Or what we believe we are. All of which is to say that human beings
are believing animals, and that what we believe changes reality, including
the nature of the human beings doing the changing. Beliefs matter.
Ideas flower when people believe in them and therefore live them. ‘Oh
brave new world, that has such creatures in it,’ cried Miranda, meeting
for the first time a bunch of (not very reputable) outsiders to her world
in The Tempest, and she believes that as she says it. It is her grown up
and disappointed father, Prospero, who mutters ‘‘Tis new to thee’ from
another place of belief altogether. And so to the Peckham Experiment. I
don’t remember when I was last so excited by an idea in a book, though
I am old enough to understand that some more experienced people will
be muttering ‘‘Tis new to thee’ as I gaze in wonder and imagine all kinds
of possibilities. A colleague gave me some books she thought I’d be in-
terested in – one looking a bit like a 1970s’ geography textbook, one
like a parish magazine, another something from an out-of-date sociology
collection. A few weeks later I set myself to have a quick read and found
these old-fashioned looking books exploding with interest. Inside their
very ordinary covers, they were books like brain-changing drugs. ‘Wow’
I kept saying (my vocabulary not being as good as Miranda’s at the end
of a busy working day), and ‘this is an amazing story!’
The Peckham Experiment deserves a novel (someone write it please)
or at the very least a biography of its two founders, Drs G. Scott William-
son and I. H. Pearse. (For an introductory account read the piece which
follows this by Lisa Curtice on page 76.) The people who conceived the
idea are dead. The practical reality they created to demonstrate and ex-
periment with their idea is dismantled. But the idea is alive: there it was
between those not too attractive covers, shining, brilliant, way ahead of
its time. Ahead of us, too.
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your regulars
How startling to notice the date and to realise that at the very time
Nazism was creating death factories, this pair of British doctors were
conceiving the idea of ‘health centres’. The two ideas, though on very
different scales – large-scale mass destruction and small-scale social
health, seem to be at opposite ends of the same belief spectrum. I was
really moved by the sense that the physical centre was simply a physical
manifestation of the more enduring and powerful thing: the idea. ‘The
Centre’ was not bricks and mortar but the idea itself alive in hearts and
minds. In Being Me and Also Us: Lessons from the Peckham Experiment by
Alison Stallibras (Scottish Academic Press 1989), I was arrested by this
sentence from the Prologue:
This book describes a social experiment of nearly fifty years
ago, famous in its time but now only hazily remembered, that
urgently needs to be recalled and understood. For there is a
chance that the knowledge of human needs and possibilities
that was gained from it could, if widely absorbed and applied,
improve the overall capability of human beings to deal with
the avalanche of social, economic and ecological problems
that threatens to destroy mankind.
I was reminded of Doris Lessing’s tone and voice in Shikasta, which fici-
tonalises the world as a planet called Shikasta which is being developed
by a higher power, Canopus. Canopean agents are sent to Shikasta to
bring new ideas, or reignite old ones:
For long periods of the history of Shikasta we can sum up
the real situation thus: that in such and such a place, a few
hundred, or even a handful of individuals, were able with
immense difficulty to adapt their lives to Canopean require-
ments, and thus saved the future of Shikasta… Handfuls of
individuals rescued from forgetfulness were the harvest for
the efforts of dozens of our missionaries, of all grades, kinds
and degrees of experience on a dozen planets. These handfuls,
these few, were enough to keep the link, the bond.
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Doris Lessing’s Shikasta idea is one I’ve found continuously useful for
thirty years. Her achievement in this novel series is to have set up a
structure which can account for a Jesus, Mohammed or Buddha, but
which also gives value to the seemingly pointless life of a failing village
schoolteacher or even to a person incarcerated in the secure ward of a
mental hospital. It is good to be thus reminded that one or two people
– representatives living an idea – can change reality, even in the most
difficult of circumstances, as Primo Levi testifies. The Peckham Experi-
ment, proposing a fundamental shift in medical attention from illness to
health, might well be an episode in Shikasta. You can almost physically
feel that living idea in the Pearse and Crocker book. In Biologists in Search
of Material (1938) the two instigators of the project, Drs Williamson and
Pearse, write ‘Man’s vaunted “conquest of nature” is the expression of a
power complex – vain humbug. Nature is that which we obey. The scien-
tist is deciphering the rules we have to obey. Every rule disclosed has had
within its own power to ensure obedience’, a thought sited somewhere
between Nietzsche and Lessing, very well understood by Shakespeare
but not often visible in social, educational or medical policy. That such
thoughts had been translated into practical action – basic human prac-
ticality, concerning lungs and reproduction and varicose veins – seemed
to me staggering. Here was a model from which to learn. What could
our idea – the Reading Revolution – gain from such powerful practical
thinking? I wanted to go and visit but alas, though the Peckham Health
Centre survived the war, ironically it did not survive the creation of the
NHS – a different, cruder, set of ideas shaped the national agenda and
the experiment was closed in 1950. So, the physical reality has gone,
though, to quote another great thinker, Czeslaw Milosz:
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
The beliefs that shaped that practical Peckham reality are still very much
alive, awaiting your touch when you read the books – here is a world
elsewhere and full of promise, consolation, inspiration:
At least there is something of a consolation that such excellence
had been. What has been good is a promise that in other places,
other times, good can develop again… at times of shame and
destruction, we may sustain ourselves with these thoughts.
Shikasta
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Lisa Curtice
PRELUDE
Peckham, South London, 1935: a small booklet is distributed to homes
in the neighbourhood of St. Mary’s Road inviting families to join a club,
The Centre. Part leisure centre, part health centre, the Centre offered its
prospective members the opportunity ‘to develop their health and hap-
piness’. For a shilling a week the whole family could use the swimming
pool and gym, take part in numerous activities such as billiards and
dancing, and have regular health checks or ‘health overhauls’, as they
were called. The residents were being offered an alternative health in-
surance, and the chance to become active agents in developing a lifelong
predisposition to healthy living. The prescription for health devised by
the founders of the Centre was to give babies the best start possible, to
provide families with an environment in which they could enrich their
leisure time together and to offer the members of the community infor-
mation, access to preventive health care, and a place to learn how to live
fuller lives. It became known around the world as ‘The Peckham Experi-
ment’, which was also the title of a successful book, published during
the war, which described the evolution of the Centre and its ambitious
rationale to conduct a community experiment into human health.
ORIGINS
The Peckham Experiment had begun some years before when two
doctors opened a terraced house as a ‘family club’. Dr George Scott Wil-
liamson, a doctor and scientist who had previously conducted research
on the thyroid, conceived the idea of a study into health. Medical re-
search focused on disease but he wished to describe the state of health
and investigate how to develop it. His life partner, Dr Innes Pearse, had
been a child health doctor in the East End of London who had found
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that merely treating the children and parents who were ill was insuf-
ficient to overcome the effects of adverse life circumstances on their
health and outlook. Together they widened the net and sought to make
changes to the environment in which people lived out their lives, and
to investigate whether this led to better health and well-being, not only
for those who took part in the Experiment, but for future generations.
They thought of themselves as human biologists.
The first club, in Queen’s Road, Peckham, was modest in comparison
with its successor, but contained the seeds of ideas for an innovative
approach to delivering primary health care. The doctors offered health
consultations to member families and there was a club room and a social
secretary to co-ordinate activities. Opening hours reflected the commit-
ments of working people. By 1929, 112 families had presented themselves
for examination. The doctors, however, concluded that their intervention
had not been far-reaching enough. They had looked for health, but what
found were very high levels of ill-health, even in people who had not yet
developed major illnesses. Williamson and Pearse took the decision to
shut down the club in Queen’s Road, to rethink and to start again.
Then began years of thinking, planning and raising funds. It was
judged impractical to set up a controlled research study which would
attempt to alter the working conditions of men and women, and so
leisure was selected as the field for intervention and study. An Associa-
tion was formed (The Pioneer Health Centre Ltd, now known as the
Pioneer Health Foundation), with research funding obtained from the
Halley Stewart Trust. By May 1935, a purpose-built modernist build-
ing was ready to become The Centre and be inhabited and shaped by
Peckham families. The invitation to local families put it like this:
It is new. It is the first of its kind in the world. Eyes are turned
to it from all over the world to see what progress it makes. If it
succeeds, the idea will spread, and the Centre will be the first
of a long chain of centres. You have the chance to co-operate
in this great experiment. You have the chance to contribute
your experience and feelings to its working-out. You have the
chance to influence it, to make it grow in the right way.
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building needing work, the doctors were reluctant to reopen the Centre
immediately after the war, but the members were determined and the
doors were opened before a viable financial plan was put in place. Books
had been published and Scott Williamson and Pearse had lectured
abroad and the fame of the Centre was at its apogee. It was to become
celebrated, not only on film but through a constant flow of visitors, as
a model of British post-war social reconstruction. A poignant indicator
of the importance of the Centre to its members was that when children
‘graduated’ from the nursery, their parents were reluctant to see them
move to a traditional school, so members started up their own school
within the Centre, which continued even after the Centre had closed. Yet
the community in the immediate vicinity of the centre had been partly
dispersed by the war and further support for the research programme
was not forthcoming. Despite a high-profile campaign, the Centre closed
its doors in 1950. Though community activity continued there as the
Frobisher Institute, the original Experiment was over.
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poetry
David Sollors
Stillbirths, Ely
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poetry
82
poetry
To live truly,
first it is necessary to die to the world you have known.
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Calling librarians
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English. They don’t often come back, but we don’t mind donating them.
We can’t do specialist books – some people are doing courses or degrees
in Plumbing or Philosophy – but we can’t supply everything they need.
What’s the most unusual request for a book?
There was one lady who came in and requested a Latin Grammar. And
once I received a message saying that an old gent wanted an encyclo-
paedia. We didn’t have one, but I had two at home, so I went back
and got one of them and gave it to him. His face lit up, he hugged it to
himself and said ‘I shall take this with me everywhere’.
You could multiply these little incidents many times over. Mari-
ella Frostrup spoke to a young man who was looking for a book by
Roald Dahl. She asked why and he said ‘because I have a little group of
friends who can’t read, and I read them bed-time stories as they tuck
themselves up in their sleeping bags under the arches. I don’t want
anything too frightening because some of them have had very difficult
backgrounds, so Dahl is about right’.
What sorts of people come into the library?
This is a question of what sort of people are homeless. The answer is
you or me. I sat next to a guy on the steps of St John’s in Waterloo and
asked if he wanted a book. He said to me ‘who is your favourite author?’
I gave him a few inadequate answers, and he said ‘my favourite is Victor
Hugo’. It seems that he’d previously been an academic.
Many people have fallen on hard times. I met a young man from
Denmark, his wife had locked him out and he’d had to leave. Lots of
people come from divorces, lots of young people who’ve escaped from
situations with step-parents. Personally, I know people who have or
who could have become homeless: when they were between jobs, had
no money, were unfocussed, or on drugs. It’s easy to become homeless
and not easy to become un-homeless.
I think it’s sheer coincidence if you get through life without being
homeless. It’s not necessarily that these are feckless people. Does a chaotic
life lead to homelessness or does chaos come afterwards? It’s too easy to
become homeless. There are students, academics, choreographers.
What are they reading for?
Some read to forget. Some read because life out there is boring. Some
read for the same reasons as you or me. Many are better read than I am.
Some have traumatised lives and can’t concentrate. Some can’t read,
others don’t have glasses. Even if an optician visits the centre they find
appointments hard to keep, so we take reading specs out with us in the
van.
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88
your recommendations
Forsaken favourites
Adam Phillips
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ADAM PHILLIPS
your recommendations
rather, with their work. What were we like if we liked this? is a less daunt-
ing, more easily interesting question about writing that has absorbed
us in the past than about lovers or friends whom we have fallen out
of love with, or just lost interest in. And yet clearly our aesthetic pas-
sions are somehow of a piece with, not substitutes for or alternatives to,
lovers and friends and family. The patent difference, though, is that in
relationships with other people everyone is changing all the time; with
writing, we change, but the words on the page don’t. In this sense art
never betrays us; we can only betray ourselves. Sons and Lovers is exactly
the same book we read when we were sixteen, but we are not exactly
the same person when we reread it.
Nothing reveals our resistance to giving up on past pleasures, our
unwillingness to notice that we are not getting the pleasure we wanted,
more than rereading the writers we loved in adolescence. These are the
writers that are like lost loves, the writers who made us feel so promis-
ing, the writers who conspired with us to love our own excesses. And by
the same token they are the most perilous writers to return to. ‘You’re
the one I’ve been looking for / you’re the one who’s got the key / but I
can’t figure out whether I’m too good for you / or you’re too good for
me,’ Bob Dylan sings on Street Legal. When a writer just doesn’t work
for you anymore, Dylan’s questions are among the questions you’re left
with.
So when I was invited to write on this subject, I was dismayed that
the writer who came to mind was Dylan Thomas. A writer, it seems, I
have become too good for. The poem that came immediately to mind,
perhaps appropriately in the circumstances, was ‘Do not go gentle into
that good night,’ a poem that, if you grew up in Wales in the Sixties,
was everywhere. I remember the revelation of reading it – or rather,
hearing it as I read it – as a fourteen-year-old; the fact that it was a
poem about death wasn’t a problem for me then, because I thought
it was a poem about going out in the dark, something I particularly
liked. I couldn’t wait to go out at night, and Thomas was giving me his
strange bardic encouragement. When I learned later at school what the
poem was really about, it seemed even better: better as in deeper, graver,
more portentous, more grand. And Thomas’s poetry was inextricable
from the legends and stories about him. Welshness was so alien to us
as second-generation émigré Eastern European Jews, and Thomas made
it seem all rather alluring in his slap-dash, slapstick, and apparently
naïvely-sophisticated Celtic fluency. If you thought, as I did then, that
the Visionary Company was the only company worth keeping, Thomas
was the bard of choice. Partly because he wasn’t T. S. Eliot, and partly
because he clearly had no idea what his poetry was about: his was an
obscurity immune from academic interpretation. His seriousness, I
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Brian Nellist
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Our Spy in NY
can you ever forgive her?
Enid Stubin
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the midnight shift at Matthew Bender to pay the rent) and, snubbed
by the editors and agents who used to flatter her at expense-account
lunches, takes to what the A. A. crowd calls ‘drinking and dialing’. Rep-
resenting herself to an assistant as Nora Ephron, she waits for the eager
‘Hiya, Nora’ before shouting ‘Star fucker! Is that one word or two?’ and
hanging up. A ‘secretarial pissing contest’ with one of Esther Newberg’s
assistants renders the hardened agent ‘pre-cardiac’.
Living in hopeless squalor, unable to pay for her beloved cat’s medical
bills and desperate to avoid complete penury, Israel uses her formida-
ble talents and the casual security policies of several research libraries
to invent letters from the likes of Fanny Brice, Dorothy Parker, Louise
Brooks, and Noel Coward, providing herself with a separate manual type-
writer for each notable. The results? Hundreds of autographed letters that
provide vibrant glimpses into the hearts and minds of characters already
lionized by the celebrity-crazed culture and exploited by the autograph
dealers who bought Israel’s confections cheap and sold them dear. But
that’s only Trimester One, as she terms it; worried about dealers twig-
ging to her confabulated ‘memorabilia’, she moves on to Trimester Two
and infiltrates university libraries up and down the Northeast Corridor to
steal letters in their holdings and replace them with forgeries. Acquiring
an accomplice to sell the purloined letters, she manages to sell some to
the ferretlike autograph dealer blackmailing her. In a wonderful scene at
a bar, Israel, terrified of exposure and arrest, blithely assures the dealer
that she can pay him the amount he demands and, once he leaves, tells
the bartender, eyes averted, ‘His wife found out about us.’
It’s the stuff of a caper film, at once larky (Israel’s word) and dark;
Israel’s immersion into a subject’s life, managed through biographies, the
loosely guarded archives she rifles though, and her own ventriloquist’s
skills, fills her ear with voices she can mimic brilliantly: Louise Brooks’s
jaundiced, insider’s view of Hollywood (‘But finally nothing that breaks
up the monopoly of time-honored bullshit can prevail’); Noel Coward’s
knowing self-evaluation as a songwriter (‘My major problem is grammar,
not verbs. For that, I must apply not the ear but the arse’); and Lillian
Hellman’s imperious froideur and proprietary control of the Dorothy Parker
estate (‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, but this is the decade of the
illegal dump’). But Israel invariably has the last word – and laugh – on
Hellman: ‘She was a difficult woman; happily, her signature was easy.’
This is a story of literary theft, to be sure, and it speaks of voyeurism
and possession. But it’s also a celebration of the delights of mimicry;
Israel acknowledges the biographies that capture their subject so per-
fectly that, following their lead, she can clone speech and observation as
vividly as the personages themselves might have done. Her work, disrup-
tive and piratical, is also the stuff of imaginative tribute: in the close of a
Coward letter about Marlene Dietrich’s towering vanity and humorless-
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come to life. Perhaps we all know that Hermione did not die of grief, and
the statue is not a statue, and that it is all an elaborate piece of theatre
set up by Paulina. Yet the burden of sixteen years rests on this bit of the-
atricality, there is so much regret and wonder and fear expressed, and
so much urgency and carefulness in Paulina’s speeches – an audience
should forget and start with surprise when the statue moves at last.
In this Old Vic production, the stage was set with a child’s bed, rugs,
cushions, a desk and table piled with books, papers and toys – a family
home about to be ripped apart by dark imaginings. While Hermione made
her playful, clever speech to Polixenes, Leontes paced the stage, watch-
ing, his back to the audience, only turning to speak when his thoughts
were in full flow: ‘Too hot, too hot…’ Simon Russell Beale played Leontes
with growing panic, like a man out of control, so ridiculous and pathet-
ic in his suspicions that the audience laughed at him. He was petulant
with his amazed courtiers and patient wife, desperate for approval then
enraged when it did not come. This skittishness became sinister when
Leontes gave the order to have his new born baby killed. There is a neuro-
logical condition called prosopagnosia, or ‘face-blindness’, which renders
people unable to recognise faces. The sudden suspicion that overpowers
Leontes seems like this, a blown fuse in the brain, a failure of connection
between nerve endings, denying the family resemblances.
Simon Russell Beale is worth watching in any play. He says the lines
as if you were hearing the thought processes of a real person, a believ-
ability which is particularly fascinating when he is playing Leontes, who
cannot believe in anyone. He refuses Hermione’s denial of guilt:
leontes: I ne’er heard yet
That any of these bolder vices wanted
Less impudence to gainsay what they did
Than to perform it first.
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In that final scene, the statue stood with her back to the audience
so we would witness the awe of the observers, looking out. Leontes who
would not make eye contact with his fellows before is transfixed now:
O, thus she stood,
Even with such life of majesty, warm life,
As now it coldly stands, when first I woo’d her!
I am ashamed: does not the stone rebuke me
For being more stone than it? O royal piece,
There’s magic in thy majesty, which has
My evils conjured to remembrance and
From thy admiring daughter took the spirits,
Standing like stone with thee
There he goes getting what is real and what is imagined all mixed up
again, but this madness is as much a pleasure as an affliction. The words
circle and repeat until they seem to bring Leontes to a standstill, turning
him into the same insensible block who would not hear truth at his wife’s
trial. He must be brought to consciousness again. Like an experimenting
scientist, Paulina provides the vital spark: she requires him to awake his
faith, which alone will do since reason has been no help in the past:
Music, awake her: strike!
‘Tis time; descend; be stone no more: approach;
Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come;
I’ll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away;
Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him
Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs […]
Nay, present your hand:
When she was young you woo’d her; now in age
Is she become the suitor?
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Brian Nellist
Yes, you have a genuine ailment though fortunately, it’s not like
A Swine Flu contagious. But poets themselves have long recog-
nised the problem. Philip Sidney, for example, at the start of
Astrophil and Stella, writing love sonnets with their tight structure and
rhyme scheme, has the lover trying to find inspiration by reading other
poets’ work until the Muse tells him ‘Look in thy heart and write’. So art
itself, the Muse, recommends spontaneity. Three hundred and fifty years
later the American poet, Marianne Moore, starts ‘Poetry’: ‘I, too, dislike
it; there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle’, and what
a pernickety business it was for her since she wrote lines on the basis of
counting the syllables in the line. Poetry can seem more concerned with
the artful and literary than with the situation it is addressing.
Yet all writing involves the shaping of words even as I write now
since even such nerveless prose as I can manage involves selection and
the ordering demanded by grammatical structure, the need without
spoken emphasis to have the stress fall on the right words. That tension
between speech and writing involves the difference between the impro-
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vised and the considered, the immediate and the reflected upon and is
present in your words as in all writing. Poetry honestly admits the gap
between the loquacity of our conscious mind and the greater depth,
the discovery of hinterlands of significance, that writing involves. Lan-
guage works upon us in ways other than purely rational statement, as
political rhetoric confesses, for example. The movement regulated into
a rhythm or metre, the music of verbal sounds, the conscious disloca-
tion of grammar, the submerged influence of image and metaphor all
involve the further reaches of language to touch and develop the further
reaches of the mind.
Such pontification means little without example. When Ben Jon-
son’s eldest son, also a Benjamin, died of the plague in 1603 aged seven,
his father, being a poet, wrote an epitaph for him:
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.
The reader used to poetry would expect a slight pause somewhere near
the middle of the line. Here, however, it’s delayed right to the end, to
the last two syllables because poetry is oral, dramatic, and you must
hear the breaking of the voice with its suppressed emotion. The conflict
between the ceremonially correct gestures and the personal feeling is
enacted not explained. Yes, ‘farewell’ as at a funeral, which by its for-
mality does indeed help our grief, but oh, the loss, the end of ‘joy’; and,
yes, wouldn’t you just know it, by claiming too much I’ve lost it all,
‘My sin’, and yet I’m still talking to you ‘loved boy’. The poetry doesn’t
analyse as prose would; it performs.
But surely, you might reply, grief can’t find time for rhyme and regu-
larity of metre. Yet, even in the midst of a catastrophe, our minds crave
understanding beyond the disorder not expressed as argument, there
can be none, but because that is the way our minds are structured. In
the last four lines of the little poem the father must say goodbye to his
child:
Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry;
For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.
Now there, I can almost hear you say, that’s what’s wrong with poetry,
that self-consciousness that turns the child he’s just lost into a poem.
And I’d reply; no, you’re wrong. He’s on your side. For Jonson, despite
all his ambition as a writer and his actual achievement, it all counts for
nothing beside his son. The unexpectedness of the line makes the hair
bristle. Moreover, the poem doesn’t end there as though he wanted to
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close with a clever trick. Poetry inhabits the feelings it expresses and
uses its formality often enough to contradict it. Here the poem ends
with apparently a lesson learned the hard way but feel the bitterness of
that contrast in the final line between ‘loves’, the natural attachment,
and ‘like’; which seems now the stronger feeling. And the dead child
is made responsible for that unbearable dichotomy, ‘For whose sake’.
How right therefore that these are ‘vows’, promises born of the occa-
sion but of course impossible to keep. The mingling of resolution and
recognition, bitterness with love, is only made possible by the form, is
only possible within the formality and breaking of that formality that
constitutes the poem.
I’ve been misled by the interest of an individual instance into for-
getting your general problem. We read at different speeds; you don’t
attend to your novels with the brisk desire for information that you scan
your newspaper. Poetry needs a still slower more attentive reading and
above all not a silent reading. Even if you don’t want actually to sit there
reading aloud to yourself, hear the words in your head in the theatre of
your own mind. Above all you must feel for the tension between the
analysable content and what the poetry actually does which will differ
from what it apparently says. Rhyme and rhythm, those structures you
dislike, are inherited, stand within a tradition, represent the formalised
voice of a community, so don’t despise them, but what should concern
you is the particular way the individual poet responds to that collective,
how he or she resists, complies, celebrates and breaks away from it.
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Readers connect
with
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THE jury
Jo Cannon is a Sheffield GP and short story writer
Robinson has Asperger’s Syndrome, which insulates
him from the horror of his plight. His wife, the book’s
only female, appears and dies unmourned in one sen-
tence. Friday functions merely as servant, admirer and
covert homo-erotic interest. Emotional detachment
renders the proselytising slaver an unsympathetic,
pompous narrator. His racist victories are distasteful
now. And the descriptions of DIY drag.
0
Lynne Hatwell (dovegreyreader) is a Devon-based
community nurse
It was always going to end in tears but somehow I
hoped this might be the moment for the eighteenth
century and me to hit it off. Sadly mistaken, Robinson
Crusoe proved as impenetrable and distracting as any-
thing else I have attempted, another time perhaps but
not this one.
*
books about…
fathers and sons
Angela Macmillan
In the arrogant and ardent young Bazarov, the book’s central character,
we find the human need for faith, friendship and human love conflict-
ing with the political and philosophical ideas of nihilism when ideals
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have to be lived out in real life. But through Arkady, Bazarov’s acolyte,
and Arkady’s father Nikolai, we see that freedom and human values can
coexist together and bridge the generations.
Sebastian Barry, A Long Long Way (Faber and Faber, ISBN 978-
0571218011)
The story of Irishman Willie Dunn fighting for King and Country in
WW1 while, at home in Dublin, his countrymen are rising against the
British. At the heart of the novel is his relationship with his policeman
father: loving, tender and heartbreaking.
If you read nothing else this year, read this utterly absorbing exploration
of the nature of hope and forgiveness. A companion piece to Gilead in
which religion is once again central.
In old age, shepherd Michael and his wife, Isabel have a son, Luke,
much loved. Troubles come and faced by the prospect of losing the land
that had been their all, Michael decides Luke will leave to make his
fortune and safeguard his inheritance. The boy never returns. Every day,
to the end of his life, Michael goes to work on the sheepfold they had
started to build together, ‘There is a comfort in the strength of love; /
‘Twill make a thing endurable, which else / Would break the heart’.
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GOOD BOOKS
RECOMMENDATIONS
verbal booty
Y
‘
ou know I can’t write at all’, Samuel Beckett wrote
to his friend and main correspondent Thomas Mc-
Greevy in 1931, when he was aged 24. ‘The simplest
sentence is a torture.’ The young Beckett laments his
perceived inability throughout the letters collected in
this volume, covering the years 1929 to 1940. ‘This writing is a bloody
awful grind’, he complains; ‘The idea itself of writing seems somehow
ludicrous.’ Although Beckett says, ‘I can’t write anything at all, can’t
imagine even the shape of a sentence’, in his letters he is finding his
creative voice. As the editors suggest in their General Introduction to
this, the first of four projected volumes:
The writing of letters constitutes for Beckett both a warm-
ing-up exercise and an end in itself, an act of writing often
as exciting as anything he is composing with a view to
publication.
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‘I cannot get away’, he writes five years later, ‘from the naïve antithesis
that, at least where literature is concerned, a thing is either worth it or
not worth it. And if we absolutely must earn money, we do it elsewhere.’
The identification of living with writing shows Beckett following the
course of a strictly literary life.
This extraordinary ‘stew of LETTERS’, then, tells a narrative of Beck-
ett’s life as a writer. In the 1980s, he himself authorised Martha Dow
Fehsenfeld, General Editor of the project, to publish ‘those passages only
having bearing on my work’. Due to this stipulation, to the impossibil-
ity of locating all his letters so soon after his death in 1989, and to the
fact of there being over 15 000 extant letters, the four-volume collection
will be a selection, rather than a complete edition. This first volume sees
Beckett travelling between Paris and his dreaded homeland Ireland,
around Germany and through London. He writes to Sergei Eisenstein,
requesting admission to the Moscow State School of Cinematography;
considers training to be a commercial pilot; and is stabbed in Paris by a
pimp called Prudent. The novel Murphy, the short story collection More
Pricks Than Kicks, and the study Proust are just three of his publications
in this period. These are not the statistics of an indolent writer’s life.
Amongst the letters can be seen the accumulation of material taken
from real experience: ‘ “butin verbal” ’ [verbal booty] which finds its
transposition in the poems, fiction and, beyond this collection, drama.
On the 8 September 1935, he reports watching ‘little shabby respectable
old men’ ‘flying kites immense distances at the Round Pond, Kensing-
ton’. Then, on 22 September, ‘The kites at the Round Pond yesterday
were plunging & writhing all over the sky.’ He continues, ‘The book
[Murphy] closes with an old man flying his kite, if such occasions ever
arise’ (which he has confirmed they do). Descriptions of his mother’s
temporary residence, as being within sight of her dead husband’s resting
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place, foretell the scenario of the novella Mal vu mal dit (Ill Seen Ill Said)
over forty years before its composition.
Fittingly, in a narrative of the writer’s life, the selection opens with
a letter to James Joyce, the friend and teacher whose artistic spectre
haunts Beckett throughout this period and beyond. A problem repeated
by Beckett’s early critics, it was no less obvious to the young writer that
his work bore the indelible imprint of his Irish forebear. He admits of
his story ‘Sedendo et Quiescendo’, ‘of course it stinks of Joyce in spite of
most earnest endeavours to endow it with my own odours’, but vows ‘I
will get over J. J. ere I die. Yessir.’ After all, Joyce was ‘froissé dans la perfec-
tion’ [crinkled up in perfection] ‘dégueulasse’ [enough to make you throw
up], and, as Beckett conceded in 1931, ‘Unfortunately for myself that’s
the only way I’m interested in writing.’ By 1938, though, he writes to
McGreevy, ‘I don’t feel the danger of the association any more.’ The
letters concisely demonstrate the development of a style which was
very much Beckett’s own, self-confessedly ‘hard to follow, & of course
deliberately so’. ‘In spite of what I wrote to you concerning the impos-
sibility of working,’ he writes to his cousin Morris Sinclair, ‘I have just
been making the most outlandish efforts to write what nobody wants
to hear.’
Beckett is remorselessly self-deprecating in this way, variously de-
scribing his work as ‘samples of embarrassed respiration’ and as ‘the
latest hallucinations’. He thinks Murphy ‘reads something horrid’, ‘a
most unsavoury and not very honest work’. Yet out of such nihilism
comes what is now known to be characteristically Beckettian. What he
sees as ‘the only source I have, the only source of reference, my own
bloody self’ becomes his materials. As he says later, ‘how lost I would be
bereft of my incapacitation’. Themes of suffering and loneliness in his
oeuvre develop herein.
It is, though, the extended discussions of art and aesthetics which
provide the highlight of this book, showing Beckett actively finding a
style with which to approach his themes, so as to build upon ‘Goethe’s
opinion: better to write NOTHING than not to write.’ Beckett’s natural erudi-
tion and his remarkable memory combine in his analyses of paintings
seen in European galleries. With the impressive scholarship of the
editors, providing locations and even catalogue numbers of the paint-
ings in question, a tour could, and perhaps should, be made of the works
whose effect on Beckett was no less than to develop his aesthetic.
Although his immersion in the Old Masters was immense, it is his
comments on Cézanne, with whom he says painting ‘began’, which
suggest his aesthetic for ‘a mechanistic age’. In Cézanne’s work,
Beckett sees landscape to be stated as ‘a strictly peculiar order, incom-
mensurable with all human expressions’. Man is alienated from his
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Sarah Coley
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‘Nobody commented’, there’s nothing in the way, just the picture of the
laughing girl set against the picture of the couple in their eighties. This
bare witness, ‘and see, / It says’, carries the moment from long ago that
was strong enough to have travelled forward and made a lifetime. It’s
poignant because the woman is ‘beginning her absence’, suffering from
dementia but I love the simple ‘fell in love with me’ that actually and
impossibly rivals ‘over the edge of doom’.
There’s much in this collection that on the face of it is dark subject
matter for poetry but the clarity of attention transforms it. In ‘Fishing
over Lyonesse’ – a doom nine fathoms deep – the poet imagines the fish
below listening in ‘down the trembling line… to what holds humans /
Together, what keeps them from disassembling / Over depths well known
to be unfathomable.’ The answer is that what holds them together is the
same thing that might make them disassemble. Three times, like the re-
percussion of an illness, or a pull from a bottle, Constantine mentions
together the living and the dead, the widest possible aperture for us, as his
friend Hugh Shankling talks of people he has known:
I see more clearly
Where we are, in relation, how much we need
Mutual aid, the telling of stories and to wrap
Our precious dead and our precious living close
In a welcoming house, Atlantis on dry land,
The good and peaceable, cheerful, funny,
Close and ordinary.
The thought of that which you fear to lose, the close and the ordinary,
the precious stories, and the recognisability of some person who has
been, is also what can keep you from coming unstuck.
In ‘The Silence between the Winds’, Constantine watches smoke
from a fire rise and a butterfly decide to take flight in the momentary
stillness between the winds:
But see
How all things cannot help remembering
What they like doing in still weather. See
They lift up, look around. The wise
Sit tight, of course, their only pleasure
Judging which of the unwise think this will last for ever
And which know it won’t.
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come to a head in the final scene of the book, which is one of the most
powerful scenes I’ve read anywhere. Young Tom is about to leave the flat
in which he’s been staying with his aunt, when the old lady who lives
upstairs asks to see him. Tom goes in and realises that the old lady is
Hatty. It’s an electrifying moment – and completely unexpected because
until then you’ve assumed that Hatty is a ghost. In fact, as Hatty says,
it was Tom who was the ghost. Or, more accurately, we are all ghosts.
When I read it as a child, I was appalled by the idea that the attractive
young girl could become the old woman. Now I’m older I can see that
the scene is full of joy. The old woman had carried these memories in
her heart and now they were there alive again before her. Everyone who
has had children knows that this is both commonplace and mysteri-
ous. You hold vivid, recent, precious memories of them, which to them
turn out to be vague, shadowy impressions from a mythical past. But
somehow it doesn’t matter. Somehow the garden is there even if you
can only get to it when the clock strikes 13. Or when you’re thrilling
your own children with a book that thrilled you.
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FRANK COTTRELL BOYCE
fiction
aaahhh!
T here are a dozen priests at the altar but the priest in the
middle is Father Gerry. All is still. It’s midnight, on Christ-
mas Eve, in the Church of the Manger in Bethlehem, just
coming up to the Elevation of the Host. The sanctuary bell
rings. ‘Hoc Est Corpus’. A meditative silence flowers. This
is it. The most pregnant moment of the most pregnant Mass on the
most pregnant feast in the most pregnant Church in Christendom. If
you don’t taste the Real Presence now, you’ll never taste it. Father Gerry
listens to his heart and finds that it is humming, ‘No, you’ll never put
the aaahhh in gravy without Bisto.’
After Mass he talks to Father Damian. They are leading their Archdi-
ocesan pilgrimage together. They have been inseparable since seminary.
‘Dame, did you get anything?’ ‘Socks. Lynx. Soap. A prayer book. Like I
might not have one.’
‘I mean, during the Mass, did you … you know, feel it?’
‘What?’
‘The Presence.’
‘What Presence? I never felt any presence.’
On New Year’s Eve, Gerry slipped out of the Archdiocesan finger
buffet at the Hotel Jolly Jerusalem and walked alone to Gethsemane.
Surely there, where Christ Himself had wept, he would receive some
reassurance. He knelt where he could see the stars. He tried to imagine
the Bethlehem star. Would it have been visible in daylight? It would
have been so easy then, to look up and see a million tons of evidence
in the sky. Please God let there be some presence in the Universe other
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‘Faith is our fuel source,’ said New Brother Number One. ‘The Power
of Faith. We just pray about it and the flying saucers go.’ The New Broth-
ers and Sisters were very big on Faith.
His Holiness was clearly impressed. ‘And the Good News, how did
you come to hear it?’
‘You surely remember,’ said Brother Number One, ‘that both our
Blessed Lord and His Holy Mother ascended into Heaven. Well they
stopped off on the way, at our planet and lots more. They’re still doing
it as far as I know.’
They talked long into the night. The Pope asked our New Brothers
and Sisters what they wanted. They told him they wanted him to anoint
one of their number a Bishop so that their Bishops too could claim direct
lineal descent from Saint Peter. The Pope was pleased to do it. He said to
Father Gerry, ‘Who would have thought? Did you ever imagine?’
‘Never in a month of Sundays,’ said Gerry. This was a good enough
reply. It’s also a line from the Bisto advert, which began to run through
his mind as soon as the Pope and the aliens started going on about the
role of the Oil of Chrism in Ecclesiastical History.
Later Gerry and Damian showed the New Brothers and Sisters
round St. Peter’s. One of them stopped in front of the Pietà and said,
‘Now that is one chuffing amazing likeness.’ Damian had been giving
them English lessons. On questioning it turned out that the Immacu-
late Heart and the Immaculate Conception had turned up on this New
Brother’s planet after the invention of photography. He had snapshots
of both of them. He showed them to Gerry and Damian. Our Lord and
Our Lady were standing one on each side of the alien, with their arms
round him, leaning into the middle of the picture, grinning. ‘Queued
for two days to get that took,’ he said. ‘Look they’ve written on the
back.’ On the back it said, ‘To Cosmos from Jesus and Mary.’ Jesus and
Mary both looked pretty much the same as they did in the Pietà. But
less stressed.
The snaps were published in the papers. There was a great upsurge
of piety throughout the World. The New Brothers and Sisters provided
reassurance, excitement and inspiration. Their Faith-Powered Space
ships became places of pilgrimage. People would test their own Faith by
trying to make them work. As time went by, more and more succeeded.
Father Gerry, however, never put his faith to such a test.
When the Pope died, Father Gerry’s close association with the New
Brothers and Sisters was enough to get him elected to the Holy See. He
took the name Thomas. He made Cosmos Cardinal. Damian – now in
charge of Vatican finances – restored the Holy See to wealth by making
a series of lucrative franchising deals with car manufacturers. The Ford
Franciscan became the most popular car on the planet. Its specialised
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‘Oh that was a great show,’ said Damian. ‘Who could forget that?’
and he started to sing it. ‘You’ve got to fight for what you want, for all
that you believe…’
Thomas joined in, in the heat of the moment. They bounced up and
down on their seats, riding imaginary horses, like the two musketeers
in the title sequence. Afterwards, Damian gave him Absolution and an
Apple iPhone in Papal white. ‘You said your memory was going. This is
the ultimate information sculptor,’ he said. ‘It’s got a five hundred year
diary so you can leave little messages for the next twenty popes. It’s also
– you’ll love this – got an electronic Lectionary. No more pissing about
with bookmarks. You switch it on and all the readings for the day are
there. It even gives you key words for your sermon.’
That evening at Mass, he saw the camera closing in on the iPhone
and realised that it was another of Damian’s product placements.
He said the words of the Offertory, ‘O Lord we offer you this day this
Warburton’s bread and this Gallo Brothers’ wine…’
The next thing that happened of course was the total collapse of
World Banking. Every account was wiped clean. Not that the money
vanished. There were still tills full of cash and vaults full of gold but
no one knew whose it was. All the data had gone. There was chaos,
and fighting but above all there was praying. Praying like Heaven never
heard before. Maybe during the Black Death or something.
Tom knew that it must be something to do with Cosmos. Cosmos
was only too chuffed to take the blame. ‘Yes I looked into cyberspace
and saw that it was a mess. So I introduced this virus. It rearranged the
whole thing along the lines suggested by Thomas Aquinas. Pornography
and money are both under Mammon, for instance.’
‘How did you design a virus? You don’t know the first thing about
computers.’
‘I just said a little prayer and it all seemed quite simple.’
Tom could see that this was a miracle. That this must mean the virus
was the will of God. But it was intensely irritating just the same.
The Vatican accountants set about trying to redistribute the wealth
but by then it was too late. Factory workers had tasted the sunlight
and were not going back to the dark. Stressed-out executives were
feeding their families with vegetables from their gardens. With no cars
and no television, communities were being reborn. The make do and
mend skills that the homeless millions had acquired were suddenly at a
premium. The homeless millions became mendicant consultants. Pollu-
tion stopped. Nation states dissolved.
Damian said to Tom, ‘We’re the only coherent authority left. We
could clean up. We’ll start by buying up the airlines.’
‘What for?’
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fiction
‘Well we’ll be able to move around the World. We can hold it all
together.’
‘But what for?’
‘I’ll get back to you.’
Damian got back to him three days later. ‘You’re right. I mean, I
know you’re right; you’re infallible but I mean this time, you’re really
right.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well you know what this is don’t you? World peace. Zero industrial
growth. Total faith, hope and charity? It’s only the chuffing Kingdom
that’s all. It’s the Kingdom of God. And to think I almost ruined it. I’m
off, Tom. I’m back to Widnes to live in a cave and just BE. I’m leaving all
this behind. A big white underground salt cave. You should come.’
‘Well…’ The fact was Tom really liked that Papal White iPhone and
he was really getting into the art collection. ‘I’ll catch you later,’ he
said.
He did think about that cave near Widnes but what if he went into
it alone and found nothing there but the ancient advertising jingles
that still rattled round his head. What if, when there was no other dis-
traction, that was all there was? He was still not sure. In the cave, he
thought, he would be nothing but lonely. That was how he felt when he
contemplated eternity. Lonely. Like a God that could not create.
A few days later the official Toyota Martyr of Pope Thomas II, hit a
wall in Lungoteverre and he found himself hurtling towards the wind-
screen. The glass shattered round his head, like the water in a swimming
pool and he plunged headfirst, not into the Roman suburbs but blue-
ness, limitless, expanding blueness. He swam through it for days until
he came to a set of turnstiles. They were like the turnstiles at Widnes
rugby ground. And off to the side, a nicely polished door with a flunky
in front of it, like the one that led to the directors’ box. He knew instinc-
tively that this one was for Popes. As he went through, Saint Peter was
waiting.
‘What did you think?’ he asked.
Before Thomas could reply the air was full of a bright, brassy sound.
A music so pitched that each cell of his mortal body reverberated like
glass. And the tune was the Bisto advert complete with all its words,
including the verse about dads. Thomas listened.
Hearing these words restored, he was drenched with relief. And at
the last remembered with a stabbing vividness, the day on the beach.
His Mother, his Father, his Brother, himself. All four playing, madly
yelling this song, and each filled to bursting with the joyous pointless-
ness of His Presence.
123
The Reader Crossword
Cassandra No.27
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
9 10
11 12
13 14 15
16 17 18
19 20 21
22 23
24 25
ACROSS DOWN
9. According to the song he never swings *1 and 4 down. Basic requirement for 9 across
alone (4, 5) one would have thought (8, 2, 4)
*10. See 19 across 2. No offence taken in this leading role (4, 4)
11. Flying arrows for example or side never *3. See 22 down
unaccompanied (3,4) *4. See 1 down
12. Activity performed up an alley but not in 5. These pre-emptive strikes slap butter all over
Walter’s case (7) the place (10)
13. Initially I made a mistake searching for 6. Brief exchange for this self-descriptive clue (3, 5)
these religious leaders (5) 7. Vehicle to be found back in Nagasaki or
*14. Possibly Atlantis splits to provide irriga- Timbuktu (6)
tion (9) 8. Often given a bad name (1, 3)
16. Cross sections of the medieval church? 14. A Jehovah’s Witness may have this point of
(6, 9) view (10)
*19 and 10 across. Fantastic extra-terrestrial 15. Thinks ill of the patronage of a princess (10)
(3, 2, 4, 5) 17. Can right fist rotate when blood supply is
21. Policeman keeping the peace in vulgar obstructed? (8)
daily speech (5) 18. Mixing her paint to produce a flower (8)
22. No coral to be found in this tourist resort 20. Volatile Scot in alarm (6)
(7) *21 and 24 across. He turns up when fig and ham
23. Commotion after almost heroic bold- are cooked over straw (6, 5)
ness (7) *22 and 3 down. Get these in before the monas-
*24. See 21 down tery or the bar closes (4,6)
*25. Sometimes happy to begin with? 23. Having splashed out can sound depressed (4)
Always (4, 5)
124
buck’s quiz
grand designs
125
the back end
PrizeS!
The winner of the Crossword (plucked in time-honoured tradition from
a hat) will receive our selection of World’s Classics paperbacks, and the
same to the winner of the fiendishly difficult Buck’s Quiz.
answers
Cassandra Crossword no. 26
Across
1. Back 3. Telepathic 10. The long 11. Goodbye 12. Emporia 13. Ibizan
15. Raymond Chandler 16. The little sister 21. Philip 22. Marlowe 24.
Conquer 25. Nearest 26. Breakaways 27. Play
Down
1. By the crate 2. Cheaply 4. England’s top draw 5. English yeomanry 6.
Aeolian 7. Hobnail 8. Crew 9. Journo 14. Pruriently 17. Enhance 18. Ill
luck 19. Inroad 20. Too well 23. Scab
126
contributors 35
Connie Bensley lives in London, and the most recent of her six poetry collections
is Private Pleasures (Bloodaxe Books, 2007). She was on the judging panel for the
Forward Poetry Prize in 2004.
Eleanor Cooke has published five collections of poetry. She has worked as a
writer in schools, university departments, galleries, and in the community; and
as an editor. She has four children, and lives with her husband, the artist Hugh
Child, in south-west Cheshire.
Frank Cottrell Boyce has won several awards for his novels and screenplays, and
lives in Liverpool with his wife and seven children. His third novel, Cosmic, was
published in 2008 and was shortlisted for the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize.
Lisa Curtice is a Trustee of the Pioneer Health Foundation and Director of the
Scottish Consortium for Learning Disability. A former academic researcher, she
believes in everyone’s capacity to contribute.
Richard Flanagan. Born 1961 in Tasmania. Novels include Death of a River Guide
(1997), The Sound of One Hand Clapping (1998) and Gould’s Book of Fish: A Novel in
Twelve Fish (2002), winner of the Commonwealth Writers Prize (Overall Winner,
Best Book). Wrote and directed film version of The Sound of One Hand Clapping.
Wanting (2009), is set in Tasmania and England in the early nineteenth century.
John Greening was born in 1954 in London. His Hunts: Poems 1979-2009 ap-
peared last Spring. He received a Cholmondeley Award in 2008. He is currently
completing a book about Elizabethan love poets.
Gabriella Gruder-Poni is a teacher living in New York City. She has written on
Andrew Marvell, and is currently translating an Italian children’s classic, Il Gior-
nalino di Gian Burrasca, by Vamba.
Kenneth Hesketh is a composer commissioned and performed throughout
Europe, Canada and the US. RLPO Composer in the House 2007-2009 and RCM
and Liverpool University Professor, his work is critically acclaimed and recorded.
Paul Kingsnorth is the author of Real England: the battle against the bland (Por-
tobello, 2008). His debut poetry collection is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry.
www.paulkingsnorth.net
Gill Lowther has tried her hand at various things, but settled with teaching,
which she loved. She enjoys being a mum, playing the saxophone and trumpet,
floral painting, and co-ordinating the QHA library van.
Penny Markell runs Get Into Reading groups in London, mostly in the East End.
She works in libraries, at a centre for the homeless, and in a mental health ward.
Ian McMillan was born in 1956 and has been a freelance writer/performer/
broadcaster since 1981. He presents The Verb on BBC Radio 3 every Friday night.
Richard Meier lives and works in London. A number of his poems appeared in
Carcanet’s Oxford Poets Anthology 2002. He hopes that some kind publisher might
publish his collection in the not too distant future.
Les Murray works a day a month on Australia’s Macquarie Dictionary. Other days
he moves around in time a lot.
Tom Paulin is a poet, essayist, editor and lecturer and was a regular panellist on
BBC’s Newsnight Review. Publications include The Invasion Handbook (Faber 2003)
and The Secret Life of Poems (Faber 2008).
Adam Phillips psychoanalyst and author of eleven books, including Side Effects
and Houdini’s Box. He writes regularly for The New York Times, the London Review of
Books, and The Observer, and is General Editor of The Penguin Freud Reader.
127
THE back end
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128