Green Gables Country

 Yesterday we paid a visit to the extensive heritage/retail complex that has grown up around the scenes that inspired Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables. It's easy to see why she loved the countryside hereabouts, but you can't help wondering what she would make of what has been done in celebration of her legacy. The huge visitor centre on the site of her cousins' farmstead tells the story of her life, but in a strangely patchy way, with much omitted and too little useful information: in particular, many photographs, mostly of men who presumably had a role in her life story, are left uncaptioned and unexplained. The farmhouse – which inspired Green Gables, but where Lucy never lived – has been quite convincingly restored as a typical house of the period, complete with green gables (and the booklet about the upper floor is full of good biographical information, supported by quotations from Montgomery's writings). The whole place was heaving with visitors, predictably enough, but the woodland walk the author knew as Lover's Lane was fairly peaceful – and a single blue butterfly (a Summer Azure?) was flying there. It was a hot day, and after this visit we headed for the local beach and had a refreshing swim, undeterred by a few jellyfish stings (nothing serious – a mild irritation, gone in ten minutes). 
   Later, I read the account of Montgomery's life on Wikipedia, and discovered just how much was missing from the story told on site. It's a sad, sad story, which you can read here if you wish. And I was struck by this sentence:  
'In 1920, the house where Montgomery grew up in Cavendish was torn down by her uncle, who complained that too many tourists were coming on to the property to see the house that inspired the house in which Anne was depicted as growing up.' (If this was the birthplace house, it must have been rebuilt, as it still stands at some little distance from the rest of the site. Or was it the homestead where Montgomery lived for many years with her grandparents? Or even the farmhouse itself? As I said, too little solid information.)

The Price of Fish

 I must stop this fooling around with ChatGTP, but I thought I'd try it with this – 'a conversation about the price of fish in the style of Ronald Firbank'. The result, I think, is not bad, an index perhaps of how easy Firbank is to parody – indeed, he was not above doing it himself... 

A GILDED DRAWING ROOM IN KENSINGTON, JUST AFTER TEA. THE CURTAINS ARE A FRIGHTFUL SHADE OF LILAC.

Lady Thangmire (tapping a lorgnette against her teeth):
"I was told—quite earnestly—that the haddock had risen again."

Mr. Popsy Devlin (in pale violet gloves, yawning exquisitely):
"Haddock? Darling, in July? What a vulgar month for ascendancy."

Lady Thangmire:
"Oh, quite. But the fishmonger looked rapturous, as if he'd seen angels in the icebox."

Popsy:
“Fishmen always do, dear. It’s the brine. Or perhaps an excess of cod.”

Lady Thangmire:
“I detest cod. It reminds me of widows and bad upholstery.”

Popsy (dreamily):
"I was nearly seduced once, over a fillet of sole. It was in Biarritz. Or Bournemouth. Somewhere with an ‘r’ and questionable morals."

Lady Thangmire:
"How continental. I do admire a man who can whisper sweet nothings between courses."

Popsy:
"Still, the price of turbot is criminal. Positively republican."

Lady Thangmire:
“Oh, but everything’s gone up, hasn’t it? Even sin is frightfully dear.”

Popsy:
"Darling, I've been economising wickedly. I only dine twice now. Breakfast is a flirtation. Supper, an affair."

Lady Thangmire (archly):
“Do you pay for either?”

Popsy (with a shrug):
"Only with my reputation, which—mercifully—is priceless."

Lady Thangmire:
"Still. I might send for herring. There's a Protestant dignity to it. It never smiles."

Popsy (sighing):
“If fish could smile, we'd all be Roman Catholics.”

So then I thought I'd set it a tougher challenge – 'a conversation about the price of fish in the style of Ivy Compton-Burnett'. The result was disappointing, but also, I suppose, reassuring, in demonstrating that Ivy's style is truly inimitable...   

Characters:

• Mrs. Galbraith – Matriarch of the household, direct and controlling.

• Miriam – Her adult daughter, dutiful but quietly resentful.

• Algernon – The younger son, sarcastic and detached.

• Cook (Mrs. Simms) – Housekeeper with opinions of her own.

---

Scene: The dining room, late morning. Mrs. Galbraith is seated with letters. Miriam stands by the window. Algernon enters, late for breakfast.

Mrs. Galbraith:
You have missed the haddock, Algernon. It was not unworthy of attention, though Cook informs me it now verges on extravagance.

Algernon:
Then I am relieved to have missed it. I cannot eat what has become a symbol.

Miriam:
I thought it was simply haddock.

Mrs. Galbraith:
Miriam, do not be obtuse. A price rising beyond what it was must suggest a new function. Food ceases to nourish and begins to signify.

Algernon:
In this case, it signifies inflation and Cook’s disapproval.

Mrs. Simms (entering quietly):
It signifies, Madam, that fish costs three shillings more than it did last week, and that the fishmonger looks at me as if I had done it myself.

Mrs. Galbraith:
Perhaps you have, Mrs. Simms. The household seems to affect the economy more than I thought.

Miriam:
We must eat something, Mother.

Mrs. Galbraith:
We must indeed. Though apparently not fish, if we are to avoid economic blame.

Algernon:
I shall go without. It will be my contribution to fiscal stability.

Mrs. Simms:
If Master Algernon eats nothing, it will be the first time the kitchen has saved money by his abstinence.

Algernon:
Mrs. Simms, I see you have turned against me. Perhaps it is the sardines.

Mrs. Simms:
They too have gone up, Sir.

Mrs. Galbraith:
Then it is settled. We shall eat root vegetables and declare ourselves patriots. Miriam, make a note that we are no longer to be part of the fish economy.

Miriam:
Yes, Mother. Shall I also inform the fishmonger that he has lost our trust?

Mrs. Galbraith:
He may take that as implied. If he notices the absence of Mrs. Simms, he will know we are not unaware of his machinations.

Algernon:
It is a bold stance. I admire our commitment to justice in matters piscatorial.

Mrs. Galbraith:
We must be bold, Algernon. What else have we to be?


Hmm. A shame this is so weak – especially as the price of fish was just the kind of subject Ivy was liable to raise in the course of conversation...

---

'Passing the old vicarage this morning...'

 My Canadian son-in-law has been introducing me to the delights/horrors of AI and ChatGPT. Last night he asked ChatGPT to generate a blogpost in the style of Nigeness, and the result was a curious affair, full of references to (and quotations from) Richard Jefferies, a writer who has barely figured on this blog, and of whom I have read almost nothing, having been defeated by The Story of My Heart. 
  Today I had another go, and asked again for a piece in the style of Nigeness – a blog, ChatGPT assures me, 'known for its elegant brevity, wry English charm, cultural-literary references, and gentle melancholia — often centred around overlooked beauty, curious historical trivia, or literary figures'. Fair enough, I suppose – and here is the blogpost it came up with. I think it reads like a rather clumsy pastiche, almost a parody – a kind of melange of various elements forming a less than convincing whole – but it's slightly unnerving, all the same...

Fallen Fruit and Unseasonable Saints

Passing the old vicarage this morning — now, of course, a boutique dental surgery — I noticed the apples had begun to fall early. The lawn, usually immaculate, was strewn with windfalls: lopsided, half-ripened, strangely luminous in the damp grass. A sign, perhaps, of the season misbehaving. Or behaving exactly as seasons do now: erratically, impatiently, with none of that measured English reluctance we once counted on.

It reminded me of a line from Edward Thomas, whose poetry clings to me most when things are shifting:
“The summer is over / And never a flower.”
He had a way of noticing what was no longer there — and making it feel all the more present.

Inside, the waiting room was lit with a kind of sterile hospitality — coffee-table glossies, a muted diffuser smelling faintly of eucalyptus, and an impossibly polite receptionist who may once have sung madrigals. A child was drawing what looked like St. George fighting a dragon with orthodontic gear.

Speaking of saints, I learned recently that St. Swithin’s Day (15th July) used to be a far more observed affair. If it rained on that day — so the rhyme goes — it would rain for forty more. This sort of meteorological superstition now feels quaintly consoling. One wonders if the weather used to listen more closely to verse.

Still, the apples — early or not — had a kind of poignant promise. I pocketed one on the way back, slightly bruised, a little worm-bitten, but somehow perfect in its refusal to be ornamental.

From the Island

 So here I am on Prince Edward Island – the island of Anne of Green Gables, though we are some miles away near Charlottetown, birthplace of the Confederation. It's the oldest grandson Sam's birthday today – his 13th, unbelievably (see this from 2012) – and good family times are being had. Still more unbelievably, Sam flew a small plane today (under instruction). He is very keen to be a pilot, and he probably will be...
  I am also, of course, enjoying discovering the local flora and fauna, including (even more of course) the butterflies – Tiger Swallowtails the stars of the show, lively Wood Nymphs liberally dotted with ringlets, and an array of Skippers throwing up tough identification challenges, which I'm mostly failing. 
  On the flight over, I read James Hamilton-Paterson's intriguingly titled Rancid Pansies, the third and last of his comic novels featuring the appalling but strangely likeable Gerald Samper (see also Cooking with Fernet-Branca and Amazing Disgrace). Rancid Pansies – the title is an anagram of Princess Diana, whose posthumous presence looms large in the book – finds Samper, reluctant ghost writer to the stars, almost defeated, as who would not be after their house has been destroyed in an earthquake. No sooner has he recovered his usual high spirits than disaster strikes again, at the Suffolk home of conductor Max Christ. However, an unlikely turn of events back in Tuscany sets Samper on a wholly unexpected new course that could lead to something looking very much like success, and an escape from the old ghost-writing life. For most of its length, Rancid Pansies is every bit as satisfyingly funny a page-turner as its predecessors, with the same regular cast of characters, but I found I was laughing less as events moved towards the tumultuous climax. Maybe there is a simply less comedy in things finally going well for Gerald Samper, who, like most comic characters, thrives on calamity and failure – and maybe three outings was enough. On the other hand, if there was a fourth – Samper Redux – I know I'd snap it up. 

Exclusive!

I was in transit to Canada on the day my latest plug for – sorry, piece on – the butterfly book came out, as the Notebook page in the new Literary Review. I'd post a link, but it's paywalled (or something). The printed version was rather different from my original, so I'll post what I wrote here, just for you, dear readers...

‘BUTTERFLY, n.s. A beautiful insect, so named because it first appears in the beginning of the season for butter.’ Johnson’s charming definition answers a question that will probably never get a definitive answer – why are butterflies called butterflies? His explanation is as good as any, and better than some, such as the folk belief that witches take the form of butterflies and steal milk and butter, or the notion that butterflies are named for their excrement, which resembles butter. As butterflies don’t excrete anything, because they don’t eat anything, at least that one can be ruled out. It’s more likely that they are named for the butter-yellow Brimstone butterflies that are often the first to be seen in the spring. I have been exploring this question, among much else, in the course of writing a book, The Butterfly: Flights of Enchantment, which, after a long pupation, has now been published by Saraband.
 Here is another question: Why are there no butterflies (apart from a handful of generic references) in Shakespeare, a poet very alive to nature, whose work teems with animal and bird life and includes the finest flower poetry in the language? The answer is that Shakespeare lived in an age when there had been no real attempt to distinguish between different species of butterflies: a butterfly was a butterfly, a frivolous creature, and that was that. It wasn’t until the eighteenth century that people woke up to the beauty and variety of butterflies, and began to study them systematically. The leading lights of the convivial Aurelian Society, who met in a tavern in Exchange Alley until it was destroyed in a catastrophic fire, were many of them painters, print-makers and textile designers, and it was the beauty of butterflies that excited them most. This enthusiasm resulted in some strikingly beautiful books (for example Moses Harris’s The Aurelian), illustrated with exquisite coloured engravings.
That aesthetic phase was followed was the ‘golden age’ of butterfly collecting, when the archetypal figure of the man in a Norfolk jacket waving a net was born. Though widely viewed as something between a harmless eccentric and a lunatic, this net-waving collector is often a surprisingly malign figure in fiction: the murderous Jack Stapleton in The Hound of the Baskervilles, the psychopathic loner Frederick Clegg in John Fowles’s The Collector, the pair of decidedly ‘queer’ butterfly collectors in Enid Blyton’s Five Go to Billycock Hill. Even Vladimir Nabokov, great butterfly-lover though he was, portrayed an obsessive collector driven to crime in his short story ‘The Aurelian’. Women collectors, though few and far between, come out of it much better, with Eleanor Glanville, whose brutal ex-husband cited her butterfly hunting as evidence of insanity, was the subject of a historical romance (Lady of the Butterflies by Fiona Mountain), and when Margaret Fountaine’s secret diaries were edited and published in the 1980s (as Love Among the Butterflies and Butterflies and Late Loves), they caused a sensation.
 In literature – with one glowing exception, which I’m coming to – butterflies have, for all their beauty and charm, been poorly served. Wordsworth’s early poem ‘To a Butterfly’ is, as ever, more about W. Wordsworth than about any butterfly. John Clare responded warmly to butterflies and wrote a couple of decent butterfly poems (‘To the Butterfly’ and ‘To an Early Butterfly’). The most interesting and distinctive of butterfly poets is Emily Dickinson – ‘The butterfly obtains’, ‘The Butterfly upon the Sky’, ‘Two Butterflies went out at Noon’ – but her butterflies can rarely be identified, and always seem to be up to something that bears little relation to the actual living organism we call a butterfly. In Specimen Days, Walt Whitman wrote excitably about a ‘butterfly good-time’, a gathering of ‘myriads of light-yellow butterflies’ in a hay field. (He also had himself photographed with what he claimed was a butterfly perched on his finger; it was in fact a cardboard cut-out attached to a ring.) In my opinion, the best butterfly poem, the closest to the living thing, was written by the American poet Janet Lewis. Called ‘The Insect’, it is too long to quote here, but well worth seeking out. Butterflies have fared better in music than in literature, the graceful movements of their flight lending themselves to musical representation, particularly by the piano, violin or cello. However, in painting, butterflies have, despite their visual beauty, been for the most part sloppily portrayed, a fact that Nabokov – yes, here he is, our glowing exception – lamented. ‘Only myopia,’ he declared in an interview, ‘condones the blurry generalisations of ignorance. In high art and pure science, detail is everything.’ And Nabokov was uniquely qualified to opine about high art and pure science, being both a great writer and a very distinguished scientific lepidopterist, who spent years researching butterfly taxonomy at Cornell. Butterflies appear frequently in his work, from his early poems to later works such as Pale Fire, where a perfectly described Red Admiral appears just as John Shade is about to die. Nabokov also wrote ecstatically about his butterfly life, as in this passage from his autobiography, Speak, Memory: ‘The highest enjoyment of timelessness … is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants. This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern – to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humouring a lucky mortal.’ It is chilling to realise that Nabokov, net in hand, stood ready to dispatch any hapless butterfly that he needed for his collections, pinching its thorax and placing it in a folded paper slip to keep it undamaged, ready to be pinned and set. Those were different times…
 The great butterfly books of the eighteenth century were published as large folios and were essentially what we would now call coffee-table books, but, as collecting became more popular, demand grew for something smaller and more portable, the pocket-sized field guide. I am happy to say that my book, though it is no kind of field guide (there are enough of those), is pocket-sized, a duodecimo volume. Too many books these days are too big, not only in terms of length – many could be profitably cut by anything up to a third – but also in format. Books, like films (ninety minutes is nearly always enough), seem to have developed a kind of cultural gigantism – and this in an age of multiple distractions and shrinking attention spans. Why? Maybe someone should write a book about it. A very small one.

Body and Soul

 The last day of June, and it's a hot one – not ideal for travelling to London, but that's what I'll be doing, heading for Heathrow, there to board a flight for Canada very early tomorrow morning. This will be the first visit to our daughter and family since they moved from New Zealand to Prince Edward Island. I'm looking forward to everything except the journey.
  By way of a parting gift, here is a poem by Donald Justice which I came across the other day. I think it is rather beautiful, especially the last section...

Body and Soul

1  Hotel

If there was something one of them held back, 
It was too inadvertent or too small
To matter to the other, after all.

Afterwards, they were quiet, and lay apart,
And heard the beating of the city's heart,
Meaning the sirens and the street cries, meaning
At dawn the whispery great street-sweeper cleaning
The things of night up, almost silently.

And all was as it had been and would be.


2  Rain

The new umbrella, suddenly blowing free,
Escaped across the car hoods dangerously,
And we ran after – 
                               only to be lost
Somewhere along the avenues, long avenues
Toward evening pierced with rain; or down some mews
Whose very cobbles once the young Hart Crane
Had washed with a golden urine mixed with rain.


3  Street Musician

A cold evening. The saxophonist shivers
Inside his doorway and ignores the givers
Dropping their change into his upturned hat.
High now or proud, he leans back out of that,
Lifting his horn in some old bluesy riff
His fingers just do manage, being stiff –
Yet so sincere, so naked that it hurts.
Punk teens, in pink hair-spikes and torn T-shirts,
Drift past; a horse-cop towers above the cars;
And office lights wink on in place of stars.

Silence of cities suddenly and the snow
Turning to rain and back again to snow...

In the New Cotswolds

 Yesterday I was walking in a corner of rural Bedfordshire that is being spoken of (at least on the Property pages) as 'the new Cotswolds', or 'the affordable Cotswolds'. It's an area of rolling countryside, pasture and arable, gentle hills and patches of woodland, punctuated by attractive stone-built villages replete with thatched cottages – and, of course, churches. There were four churches on our (pretty short) route, so it looked set to be a good church crawl – but no, we had reckoned without the dear old Church of England and its 'if in doubt, lock them out' policy of keeping churches closed. Three of the four churches were firmly closed and locked, and the only one open was no longer serving as a church but as a kind of outdoor centre with visitors' accommodation – bunk beds cleverly tucked away in the aisles, and even bean bags in the chancel. The conversion had been nicely done, leaving the essential structure of the church still readable – but even so...Not to have seen the inside of one actual church was seriously disappointing, especially as all were fine medieval buildings. 
  I've inveighed before against the C of E's habit of keeping so many (most?) of its churches closed to the world, even though the ecclesiastical insurers generally advise that it's better to leave them open, at least during the day. I believe I wrote about it with some vehemence in my book, The Mother of Beauty – and that was before the Covid madness swept the land and all churches were, deplorably, closed and locked and all public worship banned, demonstrating to the world that Health and Safety was more important than anything a church could offer. Even when churches were allowed to reopen, ludicrous restrictions and practices remained in force, making the experience of church visiting, let alone attending a service – where such a thing was on offer – awkward and restrained at best. Happily those days are gone – at least until the next health panic – but far too many churches remain closed and locked.
  Other than that, the walk in the new Cotswolds was delightful – and the butterflies were out in numbers in the meadows and hedgerows: plenty of Ringlets flying with the Meadow Browns, a few Skippers, Commas aplenty, Peacocks, Tortoiseshells, Red Admirals and a Painted Lady – and, best of all, Marbled Whites galore, my first of the year. 

''Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat'

 My native good cheer has been somewhat dented this past couple of days by a dreary saga involving the non-delivery of some bathroom flooring. However, it's summer, the days are long, the nights short and, in contrast with last year, the weather has been properly summery and the butterflies are out in decent numbers (especially Commas just now). With temperatures reliably in the 20s most of the time, these are salad days. So here is the Rev. Sydney Smith's ' Recipe for a Salad' – 

To make this condiment your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half suspected, animate the whole;
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt;
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown,
And twice with vinegar, procured from town;
And lastly, o’er the flavoured compound toss
A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce.
O green and glorious! O herbaceous treat!
’T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to the world he ’d turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl;
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
“Fate cannot harm me,—I have dined to-day.”

Famous for his wit and wisdom, Smith was prone to what he called 'low moods', and his advice to those similarly afflicted was to steer clear of 'poetry, dramatic representation (except comedy), serious novels, melancholy sentimental people, and everything likely to excite feeling or emotion not ending in active benevolence'. Fair enough, and still better was his advice to a friend to 'take short views of human life – not further than dinner or tea'. Wise words. 
   'Recipe for a Salad' sparked a faint memory of another jeu d'esprit – an elaborate recipe for something or other which ends along the lines of 'mix all the ingredients together and throw out of the window'. Is it Dorothy Parker or someone? I can't trace it. Anyone? 

'And now this stride into our solitude...'

 On this day in 1981, the Humber Bridge – at the time the longest single-span suspension bridge in the world – opened. Andrew Marvell not being available, Hull's other great poet, Philip Larkin, was commissioned to write a celebratory poem, which would be set to music and performed by the Hull Choral Society. The result was a rare, and very accomplished, public poem – one that suggests that, had the occasion arisen, Larkin could have made a perfectly good Poet Laureate... 

Bridge for the Living

Isolate city spread alongside water,

Posted with white towers, she keeps her face

Half turned to Europe, lonely northern daughter,

Holding through centuries her separate place.

 

Behind her domes and cranes enormous skies

Of gold and shadows build; a filigree

Of wharves and wires, ricks and refineries,

Her working skyline wanders to the sea.

 

In her remote three cornered hinterland

Long white flowered lanes follow the riverside.

The hills bend slowly seaward, plain gulls stand,

Sharp fox and brilliant pheasant walk, and wide

 

Wind-muscled wheatfields wash round villages,

Their churches half submerged in leaf. They lie

Drowned in high summer, cartways and cottages,

The soft huge haze of ash-blue sea close by.

 

Snow-thickened winter days are yet more still:

Farms fold in fields, their single lamps come on,

Tall church towers parley, airily audible,

Howden and Beverley, Hedon and Patrington,

 

While scattered on steep seas, ice-crusted ships

Like errant birds carry her loneliness,

A lighted memory no miles eclipse,

A harbour for the heart against distress.

 

And now this stride into our solitude,

A swallow-fall and rise of one plain line,

A giant step for ever to include

All our dear landscape in a new design.

 

The winds play on it like a harp; the song,

Sharp from the east, sun-throated from the west,

Will never to one separate shire belong,

But north and south make union manifest.

 

Lost centuries of local lives that rose

And flowered to fall short where they began

Seem now to reassemble and unclose,

All resurrected in this single span,

 

Reaching for the world, as our lives do,

As all lives do, reaching that we may give

The best of what we are and hold as true:

Always it is by bridges that we live.

'The higher processes of art are all processes of simplification'

 'The novel, for a long while, has been over-furnished. The property man has been so busy on its pages, the importance of material objects and their vivid presentation have been so stressed, that we take it for granted whoever can observe, and can write the English language, can write a novel. Often the latter qualification is considered unnecessary.'
That's Willa Cather, kicking off a short but pungent essay, 'The Novel Démeublé' (collected in Not Under Forty). The essay takes aim at the form of 'realism' that 'asserts itself in the cataloguing of a great number of material objects, in explaining mechanical processes, the methods of operating manufactories and trades, and in minutely and unsparingly describing physical sensations.' Cather acknowledges that the novels of Balzac and Tolstoy (and Flaubert, whom she doesn't mention) are decidedly over-furnished, but she excuses both on the grounds that the furniture, however luxuriant, is essential to their artistic purpose, to the creation of a particular world and a particular emotional atmosphere. 
  'If the novel is a form of imaginative art, it cannot be at the same time a vivid and brilliant form of journalism,' she writes, and 'the higher processes of art are all processes of simplification.' She takes a swipe at D.H. Lawrence: 'A novel crowded with physical sensations is no less a catalogue than one crowded with furniture. A book like The Rainbow sharply reminds us how vast a distance lies between emotion and mere sensory reactions ... Can one imagine anything more terrible than the story of Romeo and Juliet rewritten in prose by D.H. Lawrence?' Indeed.
  'How wonderful it would be,' she concludes, 'if we could throw all the furniture out of the window; and along with it, all the meaningless reiterations concerning physical sensations, all the tiresome old patterns, and leave the room as bare as the stage of a Greek theatre...'
  This is bracing stuff, from a writer whose own short, wonderful novels typically contain only the barest minimum of furniture. 

Well, I'll Be Dashed...

My daughter in Canada, who works as an online editor,  tells me her writers are being urged not to use dashes, as that punctuation mark is too heavily associated with AI-generated content. It seems the likes of ChatGPT are strangely fond of scattering dashes through their 'writing' – with the result that it now looks more authentically human to eschew them. This is a sorry state of affairs – the beginning of the end for the dash? – especially as my daughter is as fond of dashes as I am. 'Now', says one of her writers, 'we're stuck with commas, semicolons, and existential dread.' What's worse, the semicolon could be next, according to some reports – and then what will we do? 
  The versatile and endlessly useful dash – introducing light and space into airless prose – is an invaluable weapon in the writer's armoury. It is impossible to imagine some writer's works – notably Laurence Sterne's – without the dash, of which he was the supreme virtuoso. How would Keats's letters read without their spattering of dashes? Or Emily Dickinson's poems? As it happens, we have an enlightening example of what results when dashes (along with underlinings, abbreviations and exclamation marks) are edited out of manuscript text in favour of decorous semicolons, full stops and quotation marks. This was the treatment meted out to Jane Austen by her publishers, and it seems to me that it drained her writing of a good deal of its original vitality. Here is a passage from the manuscript of Persuasion, as written –

You should have distinguished – replied Anne – You should not have suspected me now; – The case so different, & my age so different! – If I was wrong, in yeilding to Persuasion once, remember that it was to Persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of Risk. When I yeilded, I thought it was to Duty – But no Duty could be called in aid here. – In marrying a Man indifferent to me, all Risk would have been incurred, & all Duty violated.

And here is the tidied-up version – 

'You should have distinguished,' replied Anne. 'You should not have suspected me now; the case so different, and my age so different. If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I thought it was to duty; but no duty could be called in aid here. In marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred, and all duty violated.'

Compare and contrast, as they say. 
   At present it is only possible to read Jane Austen in the original in the prohibitively expensive five-volume set of Jane Austen's Fiction Manuscripts, edited by Kathryn Sutherland. Surely there is enough interest in Austen to publish some of them in an affordable form. 

'It's best for genuises to travel light'

 The other day I was startled to discover that I don't have a Yeats on my bedside bookshelves. I know I have at least one somewhere, but it/they must have been subsumed into the chaos that reigns on the other shelves in the house. So off I went to pick up a Yeats from one of the charity bookshops, two of which carry quite a lot of poetry, so surely.... Alas, I drew a blank at my favourite shop, so I tried a less favourite one. As I was scanning the poetry section, an amiable young volunteer who was shelving nearby asked me what I was looking for. The name Yeats clearly meant nothing to him, but he was interested enough to ask if he'd written anything he might know. I quoted a few old chestnuts – no country for old men, things fall apart, I will arise and go now, etc. – but no response. He's a student, he told me, studying speech and drama. Ah well. He asked me how Yeats was spelt, and obligingly went off and looked in the stockroom, but again no joy. However, continuing to scan the shelves, I spotted Gavin Ewart's Selected Poems, 1933-1993 (quite a run!), so I snapped that up. I've written about Ewart before (e.g. here). He was a poet who wrote mostly 'light verse', and whose range has been described as 'from rueful to raucous'. It could also be described as 'from serious to scabrous'. Here, from Selected Poems, is something fairly close to the 'serious' end, a typically shapely reflection on literary fame, contrasting the fate of Yeats and Shakespeare (and referencing Arnold's 'Others abide our question, thou are free').  

Yeats and Shakespeare

Somebody wrote somewhere (about Yeats) 
how even in those wasp-waisted days
before the First World War
(for twenty years reckoned among the Greats)
he was so spoiled by worship and by praise
he couldn't behave naturally any more,

as hostesses crept up behind his back
with every kind of social, sexual net
and pecking order snare; 
a lion with hyenas on his track
or hunters closing, they say, and yet
he never seemed to find this hard to bear.

Shakespeare was not so honoured in his life
though (for a player) he ended rich,
great ladies didn't swoon
to hear or see him; and a bitter wife,
it is presumed, told him the what and which
of all his faults, and told him pretty soon.

Arnold was John the Baptist, coming late
to smooth the way for universal awe,
but one thing he got right: 
Shakespeare was lucky not to be thought great
outside the Mermaid, or above the law.
It's best for geniuses to travel light. 

No Bezos

 As a blatant hypocrite, one who deplores Jeff Bezos and all his works while making frequent use of Amazon, I was cheered to see that the people of Venice are not taking the forthcoming  nuptials of Mr Amazon and his somewhat Amazonian bride lying down – and who can blame them? While no one could seriously claim that Venetians are great enemies of vulgar display, this occasion, which apparently involves hiring the whole island of San Giorgio Maggiore for three days (what will the resident monks make of it?), booking out all the most expensive hotels and boats and closing off parts of the city, is too much even for them. Surely the Venetian Resort at Las Vegas would have sufficed for Mr B, wouldn't it?  Or perhaps he's a keen student of Palladio's architecture, who knows?
I wonder if any goodie bags from the festivities will turn up on Amazon...

'The unpurged images of day recede...'

 On this day 160 years ago, William Butler Yeats was born. When I marked the sesquicentenary ten years ago, I wrote a little about his work and reputation. Today I shall simply post one of the greatest of his late great poems, a meditation of art and life, mortality and immortality, flesh and spirit, in all its blazing glory...

Byzantium

The unpurged images of day recede;

The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;

Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song

After great cathedral gong;

A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains

All that man is,

All mere complexities,

The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,

Shade more than man, more image than a shade;

For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth

May unwind the winding path;

A mouth that has no moisture and no breath

Breathless mouths may summon;

I hail the superhuman;

I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,

More miracle than bird or handiwork,

Planted on the starlit golden bough,

Can like the cocks of Hades crow,

Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud

In glory of changeless metal

Common bird or petal

And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit

Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,

Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,

Where blood-begotten spirits come

And all complexities of fury leave,

Dying into a dance,

An agony of trance,

An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,

Spirit after spirit! The smithies break the flood,

The golden smithies of the Emperor!

Marbles of the dancing floor

Break bitter furies of complexity,

Those images that yet

Fresh images beget,

That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.