Note

 Blog posts might be a little sparser over the next few weeks, as my daughter and family are visiting from Canada (via Rome). 

Marianne Moore: No Feet

In the chapter devoted to Marianne Moore in Their Ancient Glittering Eyes, Donald Hall examines the structure of Moore's verse, which basically comes in two forms: syllabic verse and free verse. Her syllabic lines have no meter, no feet, only particular syllable counts. Indeed, it seems that she was effectively tone deaf when it came to meter, simply not hearing it – an extraordinary thing in a poet of her accomplishment. In her memoir of Moore, 'Efforts of Affection', which Hall quotes, Elizabeth Bishop 'recalls with astonishment that Moore was baffled by conventional English prosody.' 'Why not believe,' Bishop concludes,' that the old English meters that still seem natural to most of us ... were not natural to her at all?' 
  There is plenty of evidence, and Hall cites an essay by Moore, 'Feeling and Precision', in which 'she spoke of "Dr Johnson's objection to rigmarole, in his takeoff on the ballad:
       'I put my hat upon my head,
          And went into the Strand,
       And there I saw another man,
          With his hat in his hand.'"
Johnson was parodying bad poets' attempts at achieving the simplicity of a ballad, and the lines depend on a thumpingly regular meter – which Marianne Moore mucks up in the last line: it simply doesn't scan. It should read 'Whose hat was in his hand' – three iambs, di-dum, di-dum, di-dum, as in the second line. Johnson first recited these lines to his friend Garrick, who passed them on to Boswell – making exactly the same mistake as Moore in the last line.  When Boswell repeated Garrick's version to Johnson, the Doctor growled, 'Then he has no ear.' As for Marianne Moore's ear – Hall concludes that 'she had a remarkable and innovative ear, but not an ear for English meter. She had an ear that Johnson would have recognised as belonging to prose, not to poetry.' But, emphatically, she was a poet – a quite unique one, and a classic. 'Removed from the distractions of time,' Hall concludes his essay, 'her work grows firmer, the character more luminous, brave, exemplary, virtuous, and strange.'  For another take on Moore's extraordinary poetry, here is Kay Ryan, plain-speaking as ever. 

Review

 My review of Lea Korsgaard's The Butterfly Season is on Engelsberg Ideas, embellished with a rather lovely butterfly print by Rasmus Christiansen (a Dane). The link in the review should take you to a podcast reading of my earlier piece on the Aurelians – the reader is not me (I wish I sounded like that, but I don't). 
https://engelsbergideas.com/reviews/in-pursuit-of-denmarks-butterflies/

'The swift's black bow'

It looks very much as if the swifts have flown, from Lichfield at least – a notably early departure. It's been a strange, but ultimately successful, season, beginning with the newly arrived birds absenting themselves for long periods from the cool, wet weather of late spring and early summer (and who could blame them?). Then, once the weather had properly warmed up, back they came in force, as numerous as I have ever seen them in Lichfield. If they have truly gone now, it has been a short season indeed – down south I often saw my last swifts in mid-August. I must have seen my last of this year a couple of evenings ago – a pair in fact, lazily circling high up over the garden.
  Unlike Edward Thomas in this lovely short poem, I never know when I have seen the last of the season...

'How at once should I know,
When stretched in the harvest blue
I saw the swift's black bow,
That I would not have that view
Another day
Until next May
Again it is due?

The same year after year –
But with the swift alone.
With other things I but fear
That they will be over and done
Suddenly
And I only see
Them to know them gone.'

An Olympic Anniversary

 On this evening 14 years ago, I was watching, aghast, the television coverage of the London Olympics opening ceremony. My memories of it are mercifully vague, though I do of course remember the James Bond stunt with the Queen, all those nurses prancing about in celebration of that envy of the world, our NHS (which the Man in the T-shirt now assures is about to collapse, unless Social Care is sorted out – good luck with that, Andy). And naturally there was much celebration of the arrival of the Empire Windrush – the greatest moment in our postwar history – and somewhere along the way Kenneth Branagh in a stovepipe hat as Isambard Kingdom Brunel – and was Mr Bean there somewhere? Enough – I'd rather forget. Writing the morning after, I think I was actually quite generous...   

'It was the poor old Queen I felt sorry for – obliged to participate in that puerile James Bond stunt, then sit through yet another dreary pop concert and an endless parade of grinning athletes. You could see she wasn't really enjoying it, not the way she enjoyed the Jubilee flotilla – or Epsom, come to that. She must have been thinking wistfully back to the 1948 Olympics, and wondering where it all went wrong...
  As for the content, such as it was, of Danny Boyle's Opening Ceremony spectacular, this came across (to me at least) as little more than a sentimental, politically correct primary school History lesson - appropriately enough for a Games whose logo was clearly the product of a primary school design project. Yes, the Boyle extravaganza was bold, brash, bizarre, bonkers, and a truly astonishing technical achievement. But to me it all had a weirdly post-apocalyptic feel, as if the survivors of some great collapse had come across a machine whose levers they could press to make it work – but they no longer knew what it was for, what it meant. It seemed the expression of an absence, a loss – but executed in the most extravagantly triumphant and positive terms. Very very strange...'

The dear old Queen was also probably reliving the horror of the equally extravagant, bizarre and empty spectacle of Millennium Night at the Dome, on which occasion she was surely wondering what had gone wrong since the Festival of Britain back in 1951, when her country still had a proper, historically informed sense of itself. Ah well, those days are gone – and so is our Dear Old Queen, alas...

'It is not like this at all'

 On this day 60 years ago, the New York Poet Frank O'Hara died, following a bizarre night-time accident in which he was run over by a jeep on a Fire Island beach. The literary world was shocked, and his friends thrown into convulsions of grief. At his funeral John Ashbery, fighting back his tears, read 'To the Harbormaster', perhaps O'Hara's finest poem: 

I wanted to be sure to reach you;

though my ship was on the way it got caught   

in some moorings. I am always tying up   

and then deciding to depart. In storms and   

at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide   

around my fathomless arms, I am unable   

to understand the forms of my vanity   

or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder   

in my hand and the sun sinking. To   

you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage   

of my will. The terrible channels where   

the wind drives me against the brown lips   

of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet   

I trust the sanity of my vessel; and   

if it sinks, it may well be in answer   

to the reasoning of the eternal voices,

the waves which have kept me from reaching you.

Some while after the death, his friend James Schuyler wrote an elegy for O'Hara, 'Buried at Springs'. It's an oblique, considered, surprisingly pastoral work, written at the painter Fairfield Porter's home on Great Spruce Island (which O'Hara had visited some years before)...

There is a hornet in the room   

and one of us will have to go   

out the window into the late   

August midafternoon sun. I

won. There is a certain challenge   

in being humane to hornets   

but not much. A launch draws   

two lines of wake behind it   

on the bay like a delta

with a melted base. Sandy   

billows, or so they look,

of feathery ripe heads of grass,   

an acid-yellow kind of

goldenrod glowing or glowering   

in shade. Rocks with rags   

of shadow, washed dust clouts   

that will never bleach.

It is not like this at all.   

The rapid running of the   

lapping water a hollow knock

of someone shipping oars:   

it’s eleven years since   

Frank sat at this desk and   

saw and heard it all   

the incessant water the   

immutable crickets only   

not the same: new needles   

on the spruce, new seaweed   

on the low-tide rocks   

other grass and other water   

even the great gold lichen   

on a granite boulder   

even the boulder quite   

literally is not the same

      II

A day subtle and suppressed   

in mounds of juniper enfolding   

scratchy pockets of shadow

while bigness—rocks, trees, a stump—

stands shadowless in an overcast   

of ripe grass. There is nothing   

but shade, like the boggy depths   

of a stand of spruce, its resonance   

just the thin scream

of mosquitoes ascending.

Boats are light lumps on the bay   

stretching past erased islands   

to ocean and the terrible tumble   

and London (“rain persisting”)   

and Paris (“changing to rain”).   

Delicate day, setting the bright

of a young spruce against the cold

of an old one hung with unripe cones   

each exuding at its tip

gum, pungent, clear as a tear,   

a day tarnished and fractured   

as the quartz in the rocks

of a dulled and distant point,   

a day like a gull passing

with a slow flapping of wings   

in a kind of lope, without

breeze enough to shake loose   

the last of the fireweed flowers,

a faintly clammy day, like wet silk   

stained by one dead branch

the harsh russet of dried blood.  

Christina the Astonishing

Today is the feast day of St Christina the Astonishing, a 12th-century saint from Sint-Truiden, in what is now Belgium. Having suffered a massive seizure of some kind, she was taken for dead, but in the midst of her funeral service 'she arose full of vigour, stupefying with amazement the whole city of Sint-Truiden'. She had, she said, visited Heaven, Hell and Purgatory, and now, on her return, she could not bear the smell of the sinful people gathered in the church. She duly levitated up to the rafters to escape the stench, and hovered there for some while. 
  On returning to terra firma, Christina embraced a life of extreme destitution and privation, shunning human contact and seeking out anything that would cause her to suffer. According to accounts of her life, she would throw herself into burning furnaces, suffering agonies but emerging quite unhurt. In the depths of winter she would fling herself into the river Meuse, spending hours or even days in the icy waters, praying and begging for mercy. Sometimes she would allow herself to be carried down to a mill, where the mill wheel 'whirled her round in a manner frightful to behold', but of course she emerged unscathed. This – and absolutely nothing else – Christina had in common with the far from saintly Laurence Sterne, who, as a boy in Ireland, had once fallen into a mill-race and been carried right round the wheel (had 'been through the mill'), but emerged, like the saint, quite unharmed. 
  In later life Christina the Astonishing quietened down, living, surprisingly, to the age of 74. Fans of Nick Cave might recall that he tells something of her story in his song 'Christina the Astonishing', from the 1992 album Henry's Dream...

  

5,002: All These Birds

 I've just noticed that I have now exceeded 5,000 posts on this blog – Butterflies, Proms, Ibsen was number 5,000. I would never have seen that coming when I tentatively launched this Hedonic Resource on the world back in 2008. 
   Anyway, I reckon it's time for a poem, so here's a gem by Richard Wilbur. In the collection Things of This World (1956), 'All These Birds' comes immediately before 'A Baroque Wall Fountain in the Villa Sciarra' (IMHO his finest poem), and there is a similar energy in the way the stanzas flow into each other, building to a great affirmation of the primacy of imagination and of love. 

All These Birds

                 Agreed that all these birds,
 hawk or heavenly lark or heard-of nightingale,
        Perform upon the kitestrings of our sight
        In a false distance, that the day and night
        Are full of wingèd words
                                                gone rather stale,
               That nothing is so worn
               As Philomel’s bosom-thorn,

               That it is, in fact, the male
Nightingale which sings, and that all these creatures wear
        Invisible armor such as Hébert beheld
        His water-ousel through, as, wrapped or shelled
        In a clear bellying veil
                                            or a bubble of air,
               It bucked the flood to feed
               at the stream-bottom. Agreed
               That the sky is a vast claire
In which the gull, despite appearances, is not
       Less claustral than the oyster in its beak
       And dives like nothing human; that we seek
       Vainly to know the heron
                                                (but can plot
               What angle of the light
               Provokes its northern flight.)
               
               Let them be polyglot
And wordless then, those boughs that spoke with Solomon
        In Hebrew canticles, and made him wise;
        And let a clear and bitter wind arise
        To storm into the hotbeds
                                                 of the sun,
              and there, beyond a doubt,
              Batter the Phoenix out.

              Let us, with glass or gun,
Watch (from our clever blinds) the monsters of the sky
        Dwindle to habit, habitat, and song,
        And tell the imagination it is wrong
        Till, lest it be undone,
                                           it spin a lie
               So fresh, so pure, so rare
               As to possess the air.

               Why should it be more shy
Than chimney-nesting storks, or sparrows on a wall?
         Oh, let it climb wherever it can cling
         Like some great trumpet-vine, a natural thing
         To which all birds that fly
                                                  come natural.
               Come, stranger, sister, dove:
               Put on the reins of love.

The 'Water-Ousel' is the bird we call the Dipper, and the reference is to a passage in Buffon's Natural History of Birds describing the Dipper's habit of walking about on the bottom of fast-flowing streams. 'We are indebted to M. Hébert,' writes Buffon, 'for the first account of this extraordinary habit, which I know not to belong to any other bird.' But who was this Hébert? Surely not the fervent revolutionary Jacques Hébert – or did he pass the time watching birds when he wasn't engaged in guillotining aristocrats and attempting to destroy Christianity? 
   As it happens, I was watching a Dipper by the river in Buxton, back in number 5,000. 

Ivy

 Just for the record – I recently wrote a piece on Ivy Compton-Burnett for Engelsberg Ideas.
Here's a link...

https://engelsbergideas.com/notebook/ivy-compton-burnetts-forgotten-genius/ 

Butterflies, Proms, Ibsen

 I spent most of the weekend in Derbyshire with my cousin, revisiting Buxton – the riverside gardens really are very fine – and, yesterday, taking a walk in and around Bradford Dale. As we wandered amid an astonishing abundance of butterflies – painted ladies, peacocks, red admirals, commas, gatekeepers, meadow browns, ringlets, blues and whites (sadly only one tortoiseshell) – it occurred to me that I haven't really said anything about this wonderful butterfly season. The profusion of painted ladies is not quite as prodigious as in the annus mirabilis of 2009 (when an estimated billion of them swept over the country), but I'm sure in many places it is not far short – and peacocks are having a remarkable year, with huge numbers of early fliers followed by even larger numbers of high-season specimens. It seems much the same could be said of most species – thanks largely to the summer being properly warm – so I'm wondering how the alarmists of Butterfly Conservation will spin this one into a bad news story. No doubt they'll rise to the challenge...
   Also in Derbyshire, we watched the First Night of the Proms, enjoying the Copland and Gershwin, the staggeringly talented Yuncham Lim playing Ravel, Finzi's rarely performed For Saint Cecilia – and conductor Dalia Stasevska's kimonos. Then they went and spoiled it all with the finale – the joint forces of the BBC Singers and the BBC Symphony Orchestra belting out the dreary and tiresome 'Wonderwall'. Surely, with the music of Oasis being so closely associated with 'Andy' Burnham, the BBC could have stopped this happening on the eve of his coronation. It felt very like a celebration, and the BBC has surely swooned more than enough over the King of the North.
  And we also, for reasons that I won't go into here, watched on BBC iPlayer a 1982 production of Ibsen's Little Eyolf, starring Anthony Hopkins and Diana Rigg. It's a play I had never seen before, and the first act, in which everything happens, struck me as completely bonkers. The next two acts, in which everyone talks, did nothing to improve my opinion of Ibsen, a playwright whose works I once studied but am, alas, unlikely ever to return to. Still, it was a great weekend 

Max Gate

 Well, my impulse purchase of Damien Wilkins's Max Gate turned out to be a good one. Since I last mentioned it, I have finished reading it (at my usual snail's pace), and found it thoroughly enjoyable (apart from a few jarring anachronisms – 'Okay', 'in denial', 'basically'). It's actually the second Thomas Hardy-related novel I've read, the other being Howard Jacobson's scabrous Peeping Tom, the narrator of which is obsessed by Hardy, whom he regards as a 'prurient little Victorian ratbag' – a case he makes rather effectively. Hardy doesn't come out of Max Gate too well either: the great man is self-absorbed, touchy, obsessed with his reputation and his legacy, grossly insensitive to those around him, especially the women (unless he has a crush on them), and apparently more caring about animals than his fellow humans. The narrator, Nellie Titterington, a housemaid, is very clear-eyed about her master, but she is telling the story with the benefit of hindsight: the action is set in 1928, and Nellie, who escaped domestic service, is writing some decades later. 
   The second half of the book is more interesting than the first, as Florence Hardy, the author's unfortunate (and much younger) second wife, comes to the fore. This poor woman, condemned to type out her husband's autobiography in the third person and pass it off as her biography of him – and obliged to endure his fixation on his dead first wife and his moping over a young actress – is in an awkward position, having begun life at Max Gate as Hardy's typist, so she has some fellow feeling with the servants, and they with her. The other major figures in the narrative are Sydney Cockerell and Sir James Barrie, who are hovering around the dying author, determined to secure him a burial in Westminster Abbey, despite his wish to be buried in his family plot. Florence has a sad crush on Barrie, and Nellie pities her for being 'married to a corpse and swooning over a bronchial eunuch'. The story of what happened to Hardy's body is well known, and has perhaps been slightly embroidered, but it makes a good, if ghoulish, tale (told in a less extreme form here). Wilkins creates a strong sense of place and time, and handles all this material deftly enough, though he has sometimes to modify the narratorial voice with moments of omniscience. The book works well as a black comedy, as well as a convincing window on the airless world of Max Gate, and it is, as I said, a thoroughly enjoyable read.

Best Dog in Italy

 'Imagine if we won the World Cup,' said my seven-year-old grandson yesterday. 'Ah, my child,' I replied, laying a grandfatherly hand on his innocent head, 'we have won before – and I was there.' Actually, of course, I made no such reply, not least because my memories of the great victory are hazy, and I could hardly claim to have 'been there'. While the final played out, I was in fact in deep cover, in a patch of woodland in the local park, with my then girlfriend (I was sixteen, and we weren't botanising). We emerged later and stepped into a café, where the match commentary was playing on a radio. It was only that evening that I saw footage of England's dramatic victory. 
   What I do remember – and told my grandson – is that, at some point, the World Cup (i.e. the Jules Rimet trophy) was stolen, then dug up in woodland by a dog called... what was it? Of course – Pickles. All of thirteen years ago, I wrote about Pickles and his heroic excavation of the 'not very World Cuppy' World Cup, a feat that was once celebrated in a Picklefest event in South Norwood. Here's the link – 

               https://nigeness.blogspot.com/2013/03/south-norwoods-finest-son.html

Sadly, Pickles died just a year after playing his part in football history: his choke chain caught on a tree branch while he was chasing a cat. His collar is on display at the National Football Museum in Manchester. As for the trophy itself, lessons were learnt after its theft (from Methodist Central Hall in Westminster, where it was on display along with a stamp exhibition): it was replaced by a replica for public display. Then, in 1970, the original was presented in perpetuity to Brazil, that year's winners. Perpetuity, alas, lasted only until 1983, when it was stolen from the headquarters of the Brazilian Football Confederation, and most likely melted down. 

Wes

 Last night I found myself watching Wes Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums again. I say 'again' but I hadn't seen it since I watched it, in a cinema, when it was released, all of 25 years ago. It was the first of his films I'd seen (I only caught up with Bottle Rocket and Rushmore later), and I remember being mightily impressed by the distinctive Wes Anderson style. Since then I've become more familiar with his tricks and mannerisms, that unmistakable look, but I still likes me a bit of Wes, and I greatly enjoyed watching The Royal Ts again, not least for its terrific ensemble cast – Gene Hackman, Anjelica Huston, Bill Murray, Gwyneth Paltrow, Danny Glover, Ben Stiller, Owen and Luke Wilson, all at their best. Two things struck me this time, one being the bookishness of the enterprise – it's framed as the reading of a physical book (as in The Ballad of Buster Scruggs) and books are everywhere in the interior scenes (most noticeably Royal Tenenbaum's set of Encyclopaedia Britannica) – and the other being the music. The soundtrack is wonderful, featuring everything from Satie, Ravel and Enescu to the Beatles and Stones, Dylan, Paul Simon, Nick Drake, and – oh yes – Nico, a voice (if that is the word) that blasted me straight back to my youth. She features twice, with haunting songs written by the teenage Jackson Browne: 'The Fairest of the Season' and this... 

Time Well Spent

 Well, I am back, and it was a joy to see Gloucester cathedral again – if not the city of Gloucester, which is now, sadly, the very model of English urban degeneration, dereliction and decay. A sorry fate for a once fine town, and one that is all too common, thanks to terrible urban planning, bad architecture, drugs and 'welfare' dependency, among other things. But the cathedral – and indeed its close – that is a very different matter. Not only is it a building of quite staggering beauty – especially for those of us who love the architecture of the 14th and 15th century – it is also unusually well presented and accessible, offering the hugely rewarding experience of walking around the triforium and viewing the building from a height of something over 30ft, looking down into the nave and transepts, up at the amazing vaulting, and around at the complex structure of piers, buttresses and braces that give the building a strength belied by its airy grace. 
   The cathedral is famous for its vast and beautiful east window, known as the Crécy window, which is as large as a tennis court and was made, amazingly, at the time of the Black Death. When the second world war broke out, it was dismantled and all its thousands of pieces of glass were individually labelled and taken into safe storage in the cathedral crypt. Alas, when the war was over, it was discovered that the paper labels had come adrift from the pieces of glass, so there was no clue as to how the window was to be put together again – or rather, there was one clue: a coloured postcard of the window in all its glory. With this as their only pictorial reference, the craftsmen managed to reassemble the window exactly as it was. Two thoughts: if it had been the Germans dismantling a window such as this, every piece would have been meticulously catalogued, photographed and numbered, and there would have been no chance of anything going wrong. And, if the window had to be taken apart today, it would likely take months just to get authorisation to put up the scaffolding. Another of the ever growing number of things that we could not do today. 
   Anyway, there was also some walking, this over the border in Herefordshire, where we walked (in the morning, before the heat became intolerable) uphill from Ross-on-Wye to Brampton Abbotts – locked church, wonderful panoramic views – then down to the river and back into town, where an old friend of mine joined us for lunch at a riverside pub and a stroll around the rather delightful town. This was all time well spent – and there were butterflies galore on the morning walk: abundance of peacocks and red admirals, meadow browns and gatekeepers, with commas and painted ladies, clouds of whites, and, near the end of the morning walk, a single clouded yellow, flying busily past, as they always do – my first (on this side of the channel) in several years.      

Gloucester and Gwynn

 Early tomorrow I'm heading for Gloucester for a couple of days' walking (or not) with my walking friends. Gloucester is very high on my list of favourite cathedrals, so I'm looking forward to seeing it again after too many years. I'm travelling by train, so, knowing my luck, I'll probably end up in Tamworth again...
   Meanwhile, here is another by R.S. Gwynn – a perfect Petrarchan sonnet about a woman with the most difficult job in the business.

God's Secretary

Her e-mail inbox always overflows.   

Her outbox doesn’t get much use at all.   

She puts on hold the umpteen-billionth call   

As music oozes forth to placate those   

Who wait, then disconnect. Outside, wind blows,   

Scything pale leaves. She sees a sparrow fall   

Fluttering to a claw-catch on a wall.   

Will He be in today? God only knows.   

She hasn’t seen His face—He’s so aloof.   

She’s long resigned He’ll never know or love her   

But still can wish there were some call, some proof   

That He requires a greater service of her.   

Fingers of rain now drum upon the roof,   

Coming from somewhere, somewhere far above her.   

Unsuspected Kindness

 On today's Anecdotal Evidence, Patrick Kurp writes of the 'unsuspected kindness' of which, happily, the world still has abundant supply. He leads up to the subject by way of an anecdote about an exemplary act of kindness – of Christian charity – by that great poet and man, George Herbert, as recounted in Walton's life of Herbert, and turned into poetry by R.S. Gwynn, in a fine poem, 'Music at Midnight'. I must confess I had never heard of R.S. Gwynn, an American poet and anthologist who is, according to Wikipedia, 'associated with New Formalism', which is generally a good sign. He is, according to Dana Gioia, 'an effortless master of verse forms', and he seems to have a way with humorous and 'light verse'. Here is one, a paraphrase of Hopkins, that actually had me laughing out loud –

Fried Beauty

Glory be to God for breaded things—

   Catfish, steak finger, pork chop, chicken thigh,

         Sliced green tomatoes, pots full to the brim

With french fries, fritters, life-float onion rings,

    Hushpuppies, okra golden to the eye,

            That in all oils, corn or canola, swim

Toward mastication’s maw (O molared mouth!);

    Whatever browns, is dumped to drain and dry

             On paper towels’ sleek translucent scrim,

These greasy, battered bounties of the South:

                            Eat them.

   As for unsuspected kindness, Mrs Nige, who has similar mobility problems to Patrick, is often pleasantly surprised by the kindness of strangers, even in that wicked city, London. Here in the city of philosophers, of course, the milk of human kindness flows abundantly in every soul. 

This and That, Not Including London

 Well, I didn't make it to London on Friday. The Euston train got no further than Milton Keynes (of largely evil memory), where damage to overhead cables up ahead had ended all serious possibility of getting to London, short of limping in very late, packed into a cattle-truck train and with no guarantee of a smooth return. After almost an hour amid milling crowds on that depressing station, I found an escape route – northwards, back the way I had come. I would get off at Tamworth, a stop before Lichfield, and take a look around the newly reopened castle. This should have been straightforward, but at Rugby (of entirely evil memory), the train ground to a halt for half an hour and more, thanks to a broken-down train ahead. By the time I 'alighted at' Tamworth, I was fast losing the will to live, but I made my way to the castle, paid the entrance fee, and climbed to the entrance (the castle was built on a pretty impressive motte). From Norman to Victorian, with something of every period between, the building – or rather buildings – has plenty of architectural interest, and the interiors, more or less convincingly reconstructed, reflect the range of periods. It's a castle that was lived in continuously from medieval to Victorian times, so is a good deal more interesting than some castles I have dutifully trudged around. The whole thing is, as one would expect these days, very child-friendly and interactive, but I made my studious way along the prescribed tour route, unmoved by the opportunity to dress up as a Marmion knight or test the weight of a broadsword. I even made it to the top of the tower, from where the views are impressively wide. This experience, followed by a stroll around the more agreeable parts of Tamworth, almost made up for the earlier ordeal by railway. 
  The upside of all those hours on trains and stations was the opportunity it afforded of getting on with my reading. I had with me a volume I'd picked up on the bookstall outside the Samuel Johnson House – a novel called Max Gate, by a New Zealand writer I'd never heard of, Damien Wilkins. As the title suggests, the action is set in the hideous house that Thomas Hardy built for himself in Dorchester. The narrator is a housemaid, Nellie Titterington, looking back on her time at Max Gate in the winter of 1928, when the great man lay dying. It's a fascinating and convincing reconstruction of the gloomy, claustrophobic Hardy ménage, and I'm looking forward to reading on. No doubt I shall return to this one. Meanwhile, having finally done with Carlyle's French Revolution, I have new bedside reading, in the form of a book recommended by a friend, Their Ancient Glittering Eyes: Remembering Poets and More Poets by Donald Hall. The first essay, on Robert Frost, is a splendidly incisive, but sympathetic and fair, portrait of that deeply flawed, often deeply unpleasant genius. The title of the book, by the way, comes from Yeats's Lapis Lazuli:
There, on the mountains and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient glittering eyes, are gay.