Friends moved house, a distance of about 12 miles: not far, but enough to unsettle the cat deeply.
After urinating in the car on the way to the new house, it hid behind the kitchen cupboards and was trapped behind the washing machine after the latter was fitted. It marked its first week in the house by keeping everyone awake yowling all night long.
Then it disappeared and hasn't been seen since.
I was rather upset by this.
I told my husband that the cat had run away and was possibly dead.
This is how he comforted me.
"Well that's the cat's problem, isn't it. The cat decided what it was going to do, and did it."
I regret to say that this made me laugh out loud.
Sunday, 28 October 2012
Saturday, 27 October 2012
Lotte Kramer: New and Collected Poems, Rockingham Press 2011
Everyone should have a look at this book. See it Here
Every school should have a copy, and keep it in alive the curriculum.
There are many poems in this book, and all are incredibly accessible and easy to read. Some are only three lines long, but all the poems I read left a mark.
Lotte Kramer does not pretend to be a modern, an intellectual, or anything with a big handle on its name. She is a native German, who was born in 1924 and came to this country on a Kindertransport in 1939.
She writes from the heart about the emotions she still recalls connected with her lost family. Nowhere else have I read any account of how it felt to run down the stairs for the post each day, hoping a letter would come re-assuring her that her loved ones had survived. They did not.
She remembers her long dead grandmother each time she picks up the handwoven tablecloth her grandmother made, now darned and mended many times. Each year there is less of the original left.
In cold weather, she remembers how she sheltered behind her mother as they toiled up a hill in snow, then tries to imagine what her relationship with her mother would have been, had it continued through turbulent adolescence to adulthood and becoming a mother herself.
In the loft is the ancient suitcase her mother packed so carefully for that journey in 1939.
My mother was also born in 1924, and was evacuated during the war, from London to Sussex. I have a little tiny inkling of what it was like to be 15 years old and uprooted, in a time when no-one knew what the outcome was going to be. Many of those 15-year-olds are now dead, and most of those that are left (my dear mother-in-law, is one) cannot express their memories of that time.
Lotte Kramer's gift is that she remembers, and expresses with the simplest clarity, in a way that strikes to the heart.
Please read.
Every school should have a copy, and keep it in alive the curriculum.
There are many poems in this book, and all are incredibly accessible and easy to read. Some are only three lines long, but all the poems I read left a mark.
Lotte Kramer does not pretend to be a modern, an intellectual, or anything with a big handle on its name. She is a native German, who was born in 1924 and came to this country on a Kindertransport in 1939.
She writes from the heart about the emotions she still recalls connected with her lost family. Nowhere else have I read any account of how it felt to run down the stairs for the post each day, hoping a letter would come re-assuring her that her loved ones had survived. They did not.
She remembers her long dead grandmother each time she picks up the handwoven tablecloth her grandmother made, now darned and mended many times. Each year there is less of the original left.
In cold weather, she remembers how she sheltered behind her mother as they toiled up a hill in snow, then tries to imagine what her relationship with her mother would have been, had it continued through turbulent adolescence to adulthood and becoming a mother herself.
In the loft is the ancient suitcase her mother packed so carefully for that journey in 1939.
My mother was also born in 1924, and was evacuated during the war, from London to Sussex. I have a little tiny inkling of what it was like to be 15 years old and uprooted, in a time when no-one knew what the outcome was going to be. Many of those 15-year-olds are now dead, and most of those that are left (my dear mother-in-law, is one) cannot express their memories of that time.
Lotte Kramer's gift is that she remembers, and expresses with the simplest clarity, in a way that strikes to the heart.
Please read.
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Electronic Equipment Seduces Me, but I Resist
I've commented before on the strange dissimilarity between myself and a very old friend (32 years and counting), concerning her dislike of second hand books. Second hand books are one of the greatest joys of my life. She already has a Kindle (150 books on it waiting to be read, when I saw her last week), and has now bought an I-pad. I asked her what she was going to use if for, and she didn't know. You can read books on an Ipad, as well as play games and do emails. She already has equipment to do all that, and I have to conclude that it was the aesthetic beauty of the I-pad which she could not resist. I thought the same myself, whilst waiting in PC World recently for the stock department to cough up a result for a new laptop I was considering purchasing. I was drawn to the display of Ipads, and picked one up. It was lovely to hold, lovely to look at, and the clarity of the graphics was just so brilliant. I was terribly tempted, but had to keep telling myself, "You cannot run Microsoft Office on this equipment, and the whole reason I wish to buy a new laptop is so that I can run the full suite of Office equipment and send documents electronically with ease to others using the same programmes."
The possibibility of reading books on an I-Pad was not a factor at all in my thinking. I love the feel of old books, I love the colour of old paper, and the distinctive character of different type faces. The physical weight of a real book tells you something about the contents. After Hilary Mantel won the Booker prize a second time last week, I retrieved from my bookcase my copy of her first win, "Wolf Hall". It's a hardback, which cost £1 in a charity shop. About eighteen months ago, charity shops were flooded out with copies of "Wolf Hall", presumably because people had found it to be unreadable, after being given copies for Christmas. The heavy, solemn dimensions give a preview of what the book will be like to read - not light or frothy.
At the present time, I am reading a copy of "A Pair of Blue Eyes", by Thomas Hardy. My copy, sourced in the excellent "Oxfam" Bookshop in Guildford, was printed in 1895. It is not a "First Edition" (the book was published in 1873), but a first "new" edition of the version printed by the American publisher, Osgood, McIlvaine.
Well over 100 years old, the spine is weak, and bits of old brown paper drop out of the binding when I prop it up in my book stand to read over meals.
The paper is yellow, the margins wide, the cut edges of the paper uneven, and the typeface small, hard to read without my reading glasses.
Wishing to find out more about the book, I went to the local library and took out a modern edition, "The Oxford World's Classics" version. This gives two maps of Wessex, a preface, an Introduction, a Note on the Text, a reading list, other historical notes, and an Appendix.
This is a pristine paperback, with a colour picture on the cover, and only one borrower has taken it out before me. It is printed in the Oxford Classics typeface, exactly the same as that used in its companion, "Jude the Obscure", also in my library pile.
The book smells of nothing, and gives out no atmosphere. I have read all the introductions and notes, but not the text (even though it differs slightly from the earlier, as TH revised it frequently during his lifetime, and this version has taken into account revisions later than 1895).
It does not stimulate my imagination. Reading the yellowing pages of the older book conjures up a time when women wore long skirts, had no vote and little chance of any education, and had to rely on marriage for a chance to leave the family home. Ladies, in particular, had to be shy, modest, able to play the piano and ride a horse, and had to have a spotless and unkissed past in order to impress a gentleman suitor. It is easy to connect with that long ago time when the book connects you with it. The new book, a uniform edition, has no such effect.
I do feel that a Kindle would have an even more dampening effect on my imagination.
Not long ago, on one of my now frequent visits to the library, an assistant approached me and tried to interest me in attending a lecture by Miriam Margolyes on electronic books. This lecture was free, and apparently designed to stimulate interest.
I was shocked, and told her I had no intention of moving over to electronic. This being in the actual library, I was rather worried that in ten years time there will be no books left on the shelves.
More encouraging was a small book I saw recently in the shop in the British Library. It was by former Booker Winner Julian Barnes, and was a hymn of praise in favour of real books, and particularly of second hand ones. I vowed to continue building up my stocks!
The possibibility of reading books on an I-Pad was not a factor at all in my thinking. I love the feel of old books, I love the colour of old paper, and the distinctive character of different type faces. The physical weight of a real book tells you something about the contents. After Hilary Mantel won the Booker prize a second time last week, I retrieved from my bookcase my copy of her first win, "Wolf Hall". It's a hardback, which cost £1 in a charity shop. About eighteen months ago, charity shops were flooded out with copies of "Wolf Hall", presumably because people had found it to be unreadable, after being given copies for Christmas. The heavy, solemn dimensions give a preview of what the book will be like to read - not light or frothy.
At the present time, I am reading a copy of "A Pair of Blue Eyes", by Thomas Hardy. My copy, sourced in the excellent "Oxfam" Bookshop in Guildford, was printed in 1895. It is not a "First Edition" (the book was published in 1873), but a first "new" edition of the version printed by the American publisher, Osgood, McIlvaine.
Well over 100 years old, the spine is weak, and bits of old brown paper drop out of the binding when I prop it up in my book stand to read over meals.
The paper is yellow, the margins wide, the cut edges of the paper uneven, and the typeface small, hard to read without my reading glasses.
Wishing to find out more about the book, I went to the local library and took out a modern edition, "The Oxford World's Classics" version. This gives two maps of Wessex, a preface, an Introduction, a Note on the Text, a reading list, other historical notes, and an Appendix.
This is a pristine paperback, with a colour picture on the cover, and only one borrower has taken it out before me. It is printed in the Oxford Classics typeface, exactly the same as that used in its companion, "Jude the Obscure", also in my library pile.
The book smells of nothing, and gives out no atmosphere. I have read all the introductions and notes, but not the text (even though it differs slightly from the earlier, as TH revised it frequently during his lifetime, and this version has taken into account revisions later than 1895).
It does not stimulate my imagination. Reading the yellowing pages of the older book conjures up a time when women wore long skirts, had no vote and little chance of any education, and had to rely on marriage for a chance to leave the family home. Ladies, in particular, had to be shy, modest, able to play the piano and ride a horse, and had to have a spotless and unkissed past in order to impress a gentleman suitor. It is easy to connect with that long ago time when the book connects you with it. The new book, a uniform edition, has no such effect.
I do feel that a Kindle would have an even more dampening effect on my imagination.
Not long ago, on one of my now frequent visits to the library, an assistant approached me and tried to interest me in attending a lecture by Miriam Margolyes on electronic books. This lecture was free, and apparently designed to stimulate interest.
I was shocked, and told her I had no intention of moving over to electronic. This being in the actual library, I was rather worried that in ten years time there will be no books left on the shelves.
More encouraging was a small book I saw recently in the shop in the British Library. It was by former Booker Winner Julian Barnes, and was a hymn of praise in favour of real books, and particularly of second hand ones. I vowed to continue building up my stocks!
Friday, 19 October 2012
Thomas Hardy
Have just found out that the film title "Dead Man Walking" is actually a quotation from a Thomas Hardy poem. Fancy, never knew that before.
Sunday, 30 September 2012
Burnt Norton, the first of Four Quartets by T S Eliot
I still have my copy of the Collected Poems of TS Eliot, bought whilst studying English Literature years ago. I needed it last week. You will see why.
Elder daughter and I were spending a few days' quality time together. We went for a walk. Normally, we have her Dad with us, and we just follow him blindly, chatting away effortlessly while he holds the map and navigates.
This time we had to work it out for ourselves. We got lost. We passed the most beautiful house, set in the middle of nowhere. High up overlooking a beautiful view, lovely 17th century proportions. Golden Cotswold stone.
I wondered what the name of the house could be, thinking that perhaps we could then identify it on our map. Gazing about, I noticed a figure emerging from behind a hedgerow.
This was the helpful head groundsman, who told us we were trespassing. He also told us the name of the house - "Burnt Norton". Of course I asked if it was connected to the poem by TS Eliot, and he confirmed that it was, and that Eliot had also been trespassing when he roamed around the garden and found some dry ponds which appear in the first section of the poem.
It was rather exciting to feel that we were following in the footsteps, quite literally, of one of the most famous writers of the 20th century.
Now my experience of TS Eliot whilst a student was mixed. I found some of it amusing and easy to remember .
"The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock", for example, still springs to mind from time to time when one is eating a peach, or feeling one's age ("I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled...").
"The Waste Land" is harder, but stuffed like a plum pudding full of quotations which other authors have purloined for their later work. ("The Grass is Singing" to name but one).
I remember thinking how difficult the Four Quartets were, and I feel no different now. Inaccessible, repetitive in beat, emotion and thought process, and depressing.
But I am glad I have the book, and could look up the reference to the dry pools the gardener told us about. Here it is:
"So we moved ....
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool".
The gardener gave us permission to go and look into the drained pools likewise, but we felt that we had pushed our luck in trespassing quite enough already, and progressed on our way instead.
Elder daughter and I were spending a few days' quality time together. We went for a walk. Normally, we have her Dad with us, and we just follow him blindly, chatting away effortlessly while he holds the map and navigates.
This time we had to work it out for ourselves. We got lost. We passed the most beautiful house, set in the middle of nowhere. High up overlooking a beautiful view, lovely 17th century proportions. Golden Cotswold stone.
I wondered what the name of the house could be, thinking that perhaps we could then identify it on our map. Gazing about, I noticed a figure emerging from behind a hedgerow.
This was the helpful head groundsman, who told us we were trespassing. He also told us the name of the house - "Burnt Norton". Of course I asked if it was connected to the poem by TS Eliot, and he confirmed that it was, and that Eliot had also been trespassing when he roamed around the garden and found some dry ponds which appear in the first section of the poem.
It was rather exciting to feel that we were following in the footsteps, quite literally, of one of the most famous writers of the 20th century.
Now my experience of TS Eliot whilst a student was mixed. I found some of it amusing and easy to remember .
"The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock", for example, still springs to mind from time to time when one is eating a peach, or feeling one's age ("I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled...").
"The Waste Land" is harder, but stuffed like a plum pudding full of quotations which other authors have purloined for their later work. ("The Grass is Singing" to name but one).
I remember thinking how difficult the Four Quartets were, and I feel no different now. Inaccessible, repetitive in beat, emotion and thought process, and depressing.
But I am glad I have the book, and could look up the reference to the dry pools the gardener told us about. Here it is:
"So we moved ....
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool".
The gardener gave us permission to go and look into the drained pools likewise, but we felt that we had pushed our luck in trespassing quite enough already, and progressed on our way instead.
Postscript
I have since had much the same experience with another of the Four Quartets, Little Gidding. Happened upon the location, and to my immense surprise, found that the poem was written about an actual place, just as the above poem, Burnt Norton, describes an actual place.
It does make the poems, previously almost as impenetrable as the Rosetta Stone, more real. Eery and haunting to tread in the actual footsteps of the poet, to see features of the landscape that inspired his deep thought.
Thursday, 20 September 2012
Running Out of Time - the Advice of Marcus Aurelius
There just doesn't seem to be enough time, and what there is, redefines itself with an elastic stretch and contraction according to how much one has to do.
When did I ever find time to see friends, write blog posts, and enjoy relaxation, when I had two jobs?
One of them has come to an end. You would have thought that I would be feeling great. (Well, aside from the humiliation, the anger and the loss of income stream, that is).
Thinking that I would have all the time I need to take up a creative hobby, or work towards a goal, instead I find that I am wasting most of it.
I take longer to eat my breakfast, do the washing, read the paper. I now watch more than one hour of television a week (my previous allocation). I am doing all the cooking, instead of only half of it.
This is no good. I must get on with something. Otherwise, what will I have to show for the extra three days a week now at my disposal?
Searching amongst the Ordinance Survey Maps in the bookcase, I came upon my ancient copy of "The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius". (Roman Emperor from 161 to 180 AD) . The inscription on the flyleaf merely states "1917". It is nearly one hundred years old.
Did this book accompany anyone into the trenches, I wonder? This Emperor looked too good to be true, a soldier and philosopher king - did he have the recipe for peace and the end to all wars?
Sadly not. He was called upon to attend to war, and died after winning a victory.
However, he has this piece of advice:
"Wander at random no longer. Alas! you have no time to peruse your diary, to read over Greek and Roman hisory, or so much as your own commonplace book, which you collected to serve you when you were old." [Note to self - could this be an early version of a blog?]
"Hasten then towards the goal."
When did I ever find time to see friends, write blog posts, and enjoy relaxation, when I had two jobs?
One of them has come to an end. You would have thought that I would be feeling great. (Well, aside from the humiliation, the anger and the loss of income stream, that is).
Thinking that I would have all the time I need to take up a creative hobby, or work towards a goal, instead I find that I am wasting most of it.
I take longer to eat my breakfast, do the washing, read the paper. I now watch more than one hour of television a week (my previous allocation). I am doing all the cooking, instead of only half of it.
This is no good. I must get on with something. Otherwise, what will I have to show for the extra three days a week now at my disposal?
Searching amongst the Ordinance Survey Maps in the bookcase, I came upon my ancient copy of "The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius". (Roman Emperor from 161 to 180 AD) . The inscription on the flyleaf merely states "1917". It is nearly one hundred years old.
Did this book accompany anyone into the trenches, I wonder? This Emperor looked too good to be true, a soldier and philosopher king - did he have the recipe for peace and the end to all wars?
Sadly not. He was called upon to attend to war, and died after winning a victory.
However, he has this piece of advice:
"Wander at random no longer. Alas! you have no time to peruse your diary, to read over Greek and Roman hisory, or so much as your own commonplace book, which you collected to serve you when you were old." [Note to self - could this be an early version of a blog?]
"Hasten then towards the goal."
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