TERRY PRATCHETT AND BOOKS

TERRY PRATCHETT

Being less active these days I tend to spend a lot of time reading. However, my shelves are so packed that I only buy a book if I really need to keep it. It also means that if a new book arrives, a book needs to leave the shelves to make room for it. It is then either donated to charity, or, if valuable, advertised on Amazon.

My daughter-in-Oz (who blogged as HHnB) helped here as I gave her a free run of my shelves when she was over a couple of years ago. This resulted in a large lorry calling and taking away about nine boxes of books for container shipping to an Australian bungalow in the hills behind Perth. There they now sit cosily on new, craftsman constructed shelves, looking back to me in photographs like beloved old friends.

This is all as an introduction as to why I increasingly rely on ebooks and a Kindle. Easy to store great quantities and so easy to prop up and read whilst eating! However it does not have the feel and smell of a good, mature book, which is something never to be replicated .

I felt I should extend my tastes into new areas in old age (Evelyn Waugh was a start). But I had an early attraction to science fiction/fantasy; Barry Alldis, Arthur C. Clarke, Theodore Sturgeon, Kornbluth and Pohl all sit on a top shelf still. Ray Bradbury, of course and the arch fantasist of them all, J.R.R. Tolkien.

My Australian son-in law (the chemist) enjoys Terry Pratchett whom I had never explored. So, let's give him a go - it's easy (and cheap) as he is all on Kindle. I thoroughly enjoyed a few of his DiscWorld series, but he died last year and I  have turned to his post mortem book, "A Slip of the Keyboard", being all of his non-fiction musings. I am reading it at present and it is wonderful stuff, full of cleverness, humility, humour, philosophy and anger.

One particular chapter is a reprint of his Inaugural Professorial Lecture at Trinity College, Dublin in November 2010. It covers how his life developed, school, what  inspired him to write, his first journalistic job as an apprentice reporter ( blogger, R.R.  comes to mind) on the Bucks Free Press and, of course, his Alzheimer's.

It's made such an impression on me that I would like to share it with you. Worth reading and readily available.

ONCE MORE--WITH FEELING!

It was an "interesting" Christmas. In the early morning of 22nd I arose to visit the loo. My left leg had a mind of its own & I had trouble with walking.  Previous experience said "stroke" So off I went to hospital courtesy of a gentleman driving an ambulance with "blues & twos"(as they say in the police) operating. What followed is really a re-run of my previous post  in 2012. (Since I cannot use my left arm/hand & typing is laboriously slow, I shall not enlarge on that post).

They  chucked me out of hospital after one night's stay with the usual bag of pills - they wanted to clear the beds over Christmas & I was happy to co-operate! A little more severe than the last, little use in left arm, hand & leg, but I am (staggeringly) ambulant & can see to myself - speech is slurred this time.

So my time is spent reading & I really must most thoroughly recommend "Do No Harm" by Henry Marsh, an eminent brain surgeon. Absolutely enthralling,  if not, perhaps, ideal to be reading after a brain misfunction! Marsh has great humility, humanity & supreme skills in his profession. It is a "must read".

Henry Marsh: Interview

So, apologies for failing to wish  blog readers a Happy Christmas (really was too engrossed elsewhere!) but a healthy, prosperous & peaceful 2015 to all.

ADLESTROP

Adlestrop Station before its destruction in the '60s Beeching cuts

Yes.  I remember Adlestrop—

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express-train drew up there

Unwontedly.  It was late June.

The steam hissed.  Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform. What I saw

Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther

This poem, by Edward Thomas, holds for me that moment during a busy, noisy journey when everything
stops for a moment and one is a traveller in an unfamiliar place. Indeed, it has an essential sense of time and place which seems almost unequalled.

And yet it was one of Thomas's very first poems. By this date (1914) he had had an unsuccessful career as a journalist and literary critic and was in a profound depression. He had been befriended by a fellow depressive, the American poet Robert Frost and was in fact on the train journey to meet him at Frost's home near Ledbury, Gloucestershire. Because of that meeting Thomas's poetry blossomed.

It was a short blossoming. The first world war started a few months later. He was 37, married with 3 children but insisted on enlisting although he would have been exempt at the time. In 1917 he was killed on the first day of the Battle of Arras..

I wonder if he felt that the England he had so perfectly captured in "Adlestrop" was in danger and he had to do his bit in its defence? Perhaps a fitting meditation as the first World War is remembered now on its centenary.

HAPPY 450th BIRTHDAY, BILL!

  

Today is Shakespeare's 450th birthday (and also, oddly enough, the anniversary of his death).

We have a local link to him in that the very first amateur performance of one of his plays occurred at Surrenden Manor, Pluckley (burnt down in 1952).

In the Folger Library in Washington is the handwritten adaption of two of his plays which were performed at Surrenden in 1623.

Sir Edward Dering put together  the two parts of Henry IV for this private performance at his home. He paid the local rector to write out the play and laid out the princely sum of 17 shillings and eight pence "for heads of hair and beards", which were presumably wigs and false beards for Falstaff, et al.

So our local claim to literary fame is not just limited to H.E. Bates' "The Darling Buds of May" TV series, which was filmed nearby (and is also a quotation from a Shakespeare sonnet).

"COUNTRY BOY"

I have just been re-reading (for the nth time) this book by “Richard Hillyer”. The biography, to the age of about 17, of a boy born into a farm labouring family in 1901. Totally self educated, he managed to reach university and ended his long life (died 1980) as a Canon of Durham Cathedral having written a number of books. His real name was Charles James Stranks and the village he calls “Byfield” in the book is Hardwick in Buckinghamshire, UK.

Without sentiment or pastiche he brings out the grinding poverty of the farm labourer’s existence at the beginning of the last century – yet manages to convey the pride, courage and dignity which went with it. Elements of John Clare’s work come to mind.

It is available for a song on Amazon and worth every moment spent reading it. I thoroughly recommend it.

I was born in 1938 in a country village which had changed little from the years he describes. The Second World War was in progress as I became sentient to my surroundings. The young men had left the village to go to war. The dignified and respected elders, many with bishop-like mien, were left to labour on the farms. Tractors and fuel went to the war effort. The horse and cart ruled once more.

My maternal grandparents were farm workers, living in a tied cottage. With my own father away at the war I spent much of my time with my grandfather who was Horseman on that farm; a farm dedicated to fruit orchards, nut platts and some beef cattle; a horse and cart was ideal to thread its way through the orchards and along the narrow winding lanes between. The warm, sweet smell of hay in the horse stable comes to mind, as I write this.

Grandfather with "Duke" c. 1938

My first memory of release from my enclosed world was as a small boy of about 4, sitting on a folded sack on the edge of a cart, beside my grandfather as he took the horse about 3 miles to a village blacksmith for re-shoeing. It seemed to take for ever as we clopped along what is now a fast main road which I have since traversed, under power, in less than ten minutes.

Not all was good though. My grandfather caught a bad chill through being out in the rain and the farmer hounded him back to work too soon. This brought on pneumonia and he died in 1944, aged 54 (but will always be “ancient” to me). My grandmother had to leave the tied farm cottage within a month. Always a fighter, she had all the house contents taken to the village hall and auctioned them off. Then she entered service as a housekeeper, only retiring at 75 to come and live with my mother.

Like “Richard Hillyer” I came from such a background and attended the village school. Like him, my “prospects” would have been to enter a similar life had my mother not instilled a love of reading into me. Because of this I passed the exam to attend the local grammar school (the “11+”). There are those that denigrate grammar schools and this entry exam, but because of it I, a fairly poor country boy, was able to make my way in the world. I shall be forever grateful to her and that chance.

AT EASE

Lined coat, warm cap and felt slippers,
In the little tower, at the low window,
Sitting over the sunken brazier.
Body at rest, heart at peace; no need to rise early.
I wonder if the courtiers at the Western Capital know of these things or not?

                                                                                                           Po Chü-I (772 – 846)

Congratulating himself on the comforts of life after his retirement from office. (c844)
(Arthur Waley translation)

These lines, I have always felt, convey absolute comfort and contentment. (my feelings when taking early retirement!).

I dedicate them to you all as a wish for the coming year.

TAG TIME!

That Lucy has tagged me!

1. Pick up the book you are reading, or else the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences

That seems quite an easy and interesting meme, so here goes:

" To my Lord's, where we find him newly come from Hinchingbrooke, where he left my uncle very well, but my aunt not likely to live. I stayed and dined with him. He took me aside and asked me what the world spoke of the King's marriage."

Name of the book? That should be a pretty easy one, I think!

(I shall pass this one when I have a bit more time)

AT THE ORCHARD PAVILION

AT THE ORCHARD PAVILION
(Wang Shi Chih 321 – 379 AD)

This is the ninth year of Yung Ho (AD 353), kuei chou in the cycle. We met in the late spring at the Orchard pavilion in Shanyin to celebrate the water festival.

All the scholar friends are gathered and there is a goodly mixture of old and young. In the background lie high peaks and deep forests, while a clear gurgling brook catches the light to the right and to the left. We then arrange ourselves sitting on its bank, drinking in succession from the goblet as it floats down the stream. No music is provided, but with drinking and with song our hearts are gay and at ease. It is a clear spring day with mild, caressing breeze. The vast universe, throbbing with life, lies before us, entertaining the eye and pleasing the spirit and all the senses. It is perfect.

I often thought that the people of the past lived and felt exactly as we of today. Whenever I read their writings I felt this way and was seized with its pathos. It is a cool comfort to say that life and death are different phases of the same thing and that a long span of life or a short one does not matter. Alas! The people of the future will look on us as we look on those who have gone before us. Hence I have recorded here those present and what they said. Ages may pass and times change, but the human sentiments will be the same. I know that future readers who set their eyes on these words will be affected the same way.

Wang Shi Chih was a renowned Chinese calligraphist. The above thoughts he inscribed on a stele which became famous. So many people took rubbings of it that it became badly worn. He inscribed it anew, but could not catch the spontaneity of the original which is still the one preferred by scholars.

We are treated to a little cameo of a delightful, civilised picnic in China 1,700 years ago. His last two sentences are so true (and poignant). But I am sure he would never have foreseen that "future readers" would enjoy his thoughts via the Worldwide Web!

I am indebted to Lin Yutang for this translation (and thank you, Duchess, for the book I took it from!)

WARNING TO CHILDREN

Children, if you dare to think
Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
Fewness of this precious only
Endless world in which you say
You live, you think of things like this:
Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
Red and green, enclosing tawny
Yellow nets, enclosing white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where a neat brown paper parcel
Tempts you to untie the string.
In the parcel a small island,
On the island a large tree,
On the tree a husky fruit.
Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
In the kernel you will see
Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
Red and green, enclosed by tawny
Yellow nets, enclosed by white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where the same brown paper parcel -
Children, leave the string alone!
For who dares undo the parcel
Finds himself at once inside it,
On the island, in the fruit,
Blocks of slate about his head,
Finds himself enclosed by dappled
Green and red, enclosed by yellow
Tawny nets, enclosed by black
And white acres of dominoes,
With the same brown paper parcel
Still untied upon his knee.
And, if he then should dare to think
Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
Greatness of this endless only
Precious world in which he says
He lives - he then unties the string.

Robert Graves

I love this poem. It somehow has great meaning, but I find it impossible to tie it down.
One commentator likens it to " the poetic equivalent of one of Escher's paintings (if you're not familiar with Escher, take a look at http://www.worldofescher.com/gallery/), where the question is not so much what it *means* as what it *is*. Look through some of the Escher paintings, then go back and read the poem aloud, noting the loops and subtle variations, the way parts of it appear to contain and be contained by other parts, the way the sound and imagery weave themselves into the theme." (for these latter thoughts, thank you Martin )