Beautiful

This week's Booking Through Thursday is:

What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever read?

I don't know about the absolute most beautiful thing I've ever read, but I've copied several passages I've really liked over the years into a notebook I have. Two passages I thought were particularly well-crafted and are on beauty itself:

"When beauty is universal, it loses its power to move the heart, and only its absence can produce any emotional effect." - The City and the Stars, Arthur C Clarke

"Our muddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous form of things:
We murder to dissect."
- The Tables Turned, William Wordsworth

Another phrase which I found particularly resonant is:

"This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper."
- The Hollow Men, T S Eliot


Any favourite passages of your own?

Poetry

This week's Booking Through Thursday is:

It seems like I’m always asking about actual books … but what about poetry? Do you read it? Write it? Like it? Not like it? Do you prefer song lyrics? (Because we can all agree there’s a relation between poems and lyrics, right?)

 I do like poetry, although I much prefer C16-C18 poetry in which rhyme and rhythmic structure were still considered important over modern poetry where poets often deliberately reject these things. It just doesn't feel like poetry to me without that kind of structure, just a weirdly formatted sentence.

I used to write a bit of it at university for my creative writing degree, and once I got used to it I found I really enjoyed it - it was a bit like a crossword puzzle in that you had to fit things into the prescribed structure and rhyme scheme, but it was also easier to condense and express emotion than with prose. I had one poem published in my university's yearly anthology, but I haven't written any since I finished the degree - I just haven't felt the need to sit down and do it, and I don't really feel like anyone would read it if it wasn't their job do to so.

As for song lyrics, I can see the link between lyrics and poetry, but the way many songs are produced means that they lack personal meaning for the final performer, and lose a lot that way - of course there are some wonderful singer-songwriters who perform their own work, but when a song is written by a team of 6 and sung by someone who hasn't written a single word of what they're performing, it doesn't have much soul.

Collections

This week's Booking Through Thursday is:

Do you prefer to read collections that are all of works by the same author? Or collections by different writers? Consistency or variety?

 I don't really enjoy short stories in general because they don't give me that sense of in-depth immersion that helps me to really enjoy a book. The only exception I've found so far is Michael Marshall Smith's collection of (very) short stories, What You Make It, some of which are only a couple of pages long, but all are so cleverly written that the ideas stay with you for quite a while.

Usually, the only collections I'd consider reading are either poetry collections (and I prefer those to be by the same poet or at least arranged around a consistent theme) or collections of stories about the same character, for instance Sherlock Holmes stories or The Complete Father Brown Stories. That way you still get a sense of continuity and depth as the short stories build upon each other, rather than starting fresh at the beginning of each new one.

For me getting just a few minutes' worth of a story feels unsatisfying - if it was a good idea I wish it'd been taken further and turned into a full novel.

Les Fleurs de Mal - Charles Baudelaire [image technically NSFW, but it's art, so that's ok?]

I finally finished reading Les Fleurs du Mal yesterday – it's taken two months exactly, which feels like quite a long time for such a small book. It's the first foreign language poetry I've read, and some of it really is beautifully written. I've always thought French is such a poetic-sounding language, and some of Baudelaire's lines are lovely when read aloud.

The subject matter is pretty gloomy, though, and having read the whole thing I got an overriding sense of depression, and even hatred – hatred of women, beauty, happiness and of himself as well. He seems to feel that none of those things are what they seem on the surface, and that below they surface all is evil, and death. (I guess I should have gathered that from the title...) That said, he uses some beautiful language to describe horrible things, and has definitely expanded my vocabulary. Here's part of the list of new words I've learned:

So at least that'll come in handy when speaking to real live French people.

Obscure genres

This week's Booking Through Thursday is:

What’s your favorite genre that other people might not read? I mean, mysteries, romances, real-crime … these are all fairly widespread categories. But real readers don’t usually limit themselves to just the “big” genres … so what’s your favorite little-known type of book? Books on dogs? Knitting books? Stories about the space race? Mathematical theory?


I don't want to sound like a fancy pretentious person, but I think I'd have to say nineteenth-century French literature. And I mean in French.

That's not because I'm particularly good at French, in fact it's the opposite - I learned French in college, and I want to keep it up and improve it, but I don't actually know any French people, and don't want to feel like it's hard work. So, I decided to do things I enjoy, but sometimes in French, which results in classic literature and detective TV shows.

When I haven't read one in a while, I do find myself relying on Google Translate in every other sentence, to begin with, but then there's that wonderful feeling when, about halfway through, you've got so used to it you've forgotten you're reading a different language. It does give me some bizarre vocabulary - I started out gently with a Harry Potter translation, and ended up knowing far too many words for things like 'pumpkin', 'flying broomstick', and 'giant spider' (although what with that spider-plague, who knows if that last one might come in handy?)

I'd really like to get round to reading Victor Hugo in the original French, as I really enjoyed Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre-Dame in English, but I have yet to find them over here, plus the sheer length of them makes it rather a daunting prospect. Most recently I read Stendhal's Le Rouge et Le Noir, which interested me because I'd heard it subverted narrative convention, most notably in that the 'hero' is a conniving, selfish maniplator who never really gets his 'rightful' comeuppance. Still to read on my shelves I've got Les Fleurs du Mal and Mauprat, and I'm particularly looking forward to the poetry as I do find that poetry in particular loses much of its beauty in translation.

What about you? What's your niche interest?

Shakespeare

This week's Booking Through Thursday is:

Okay, show of hands … who has read Shakespeare OUTSIDE of school required reading? Do you watch the plays? How about movies? Do you love him? Think he’s overrated?


I have to admit that the only Shakespeare I've read apart from my studies is his poetry, but that's not because I don't like the plays. It's simply that plays aren't designed to be read silently to yourself - that's what makes them so dull and lifeless when you see them on the page.

I've seen a few of his plays performed live by an outdoor theatre group that used to visit the town I grew up in every summer, and it really is the expression, the actions between the words, that brings it to life. I prefer the comedies, Much Ado About Nothing being perhaps my favourite, with Twelfth Night a close second.

While most of the film adaptations I've seen have been wonderful, a few don't quite work, for me. I think one of the amazing things about Shakespeare's work is how timeless it is - it's about essential human passions, love, pride, jealousy, ambition, and so on - and people will always be that way, no matter how much time has passed. If you think just how many successful modern adaptations have been made of the plays he wrote 400 years ago, I think that's pretty impressive. 10 Things I Hate About You is great, as is Joss Whedon's adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing. Much Ado was actually very interestingly done - it was shot entirely in black and white, and none of the dialogue was modernised, but it was set in fairly recent years, with modern clothing and context. I thought it was very clever and it was amazing how well it worked, with the combination of old and new balancing together perfectly. I don't think that the Leonardo DiCaprio version of Romeo and Juliet works anywhere near as well, however - the original language didn't really fit the modern style or scenario, and the action had obviously been stretched to its limits to allow the language to remain in place.

As to my opinions of Shakespeare himself as a writer, I wouldn't say that I love him unconditionally. At such a distance of time, it's very difficult to prove that all of it actually IS his work, and given the absence of copyright laws and the collaboration culture of the time, it seems likely that the vast majority of it is at least heavily influenced by co-writers or leading actors. While many of his plays stand out as incredible timeless classics, there are a few less well regarded ones more condemned to obscurity, but I do think that most of his work shows him to be a very impressive playwright, with a wonderful understanding of human nature.

Wordsworth's Poetical Works

Surprise bonus post!

I’ve posted a couple of poems out of my lovely antique Wordsworth before – but now I’ve finally finished it. It’s taken about 9 months to work my way through it, so it’s kind of a relief to have it out of the way now.

Many of his shorter poems are beautiful and pensive, or stirring with action and violence, but a lot of them, especially the longer ones, were harder to get through. I pride myself on never quitting once I start reading something, but even I couldn’t force myself to finish The Excursion, a 181-page blank verse epic consisting (judging from the first 30 pages or so) of the narrator wandering around the hills chatting to random people he meets and admiring the landscape.

It is a beautiful edition, and pretty old – there’s an inscription at the front dated 1867. Just holding a book that old feels wonderful, and it’s in great condition too considering it’s ex libris. Makes you think not that many people must have wanted to borrow it! Most of the gold leaf on the cover and outer pages remains, and the wonderful smooth leather feels amazing to hold. I wish people put as much effort into bookbinding as they did in those days. A book was forever, not just a throwaway read for the summer holidays, to be left on the train on the way home.

To the Daisy - William Wordsworth

On my way through Wordsworth's Poetical Works I found an elegy William Wordsworth wrote for his brother John, who was killed in a shipwreck in 1805. Although unpromisingly entitled To the Daisy, I found it one of the most personal and touching expressions of grief in the collection so far, and thought I'd share it here, as Google seems to think that Wordsworth's To the Daisy is a completely different poem. It's a little long, but worth it:

Sweet flower! belike, one day, to have
A place upon thy poet's grave,
I welcome thee once more:
But he, who was on land, at sea,
My brother, too, in loving thee,
Although he loved more silently,
Sleeps by his native shore.

Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day
When to that ship he bent his way,
To govern and to guide:
His wish was gain'd: a little time
Would bring him back in manhood's prime,
And free for life, these hills to climb,
With all his wants supplied.

And full of hope day follow'd day,
While that stout ship at anchor lay
Beside the shores of Wight;
The May had then made all things green,
And, floating there in pomp serene,
That ship was goodly to be seen,
His pride and his delight!

Yet then, when call'd ashore, he sought,
The tender peace of rural thought;
In more than happy mood,
To your abodes, bright daisy flowers;
He then would steal at leisure hours,
And loved you glittering in your bowers,
A starry multitude.

But hark the word! - the ship is gone;
From her long course returns - anon
Sets sail: in season due,
Once more on English earth they stand:
But when a third time from the land
They parted, sorrow was at hand
For him and for his crew.

Ill-fated vessel! ghastly shock!
At length deliver'd from the rock,
The deep she hath regain'd;
And through the stormy night they steer,
Labouring for life, in hope and fear,
Towards a safer shore - how near,
Yet not to be attain'd!

"Silence!" the brave commander cried!
To that calm word a shriek replied,
It was the last death-shriek.
A few appear by morning light,
Preserved upon the tall mast's height:
Oft in my soul I see that sight;
But one dear remnant of the night -
For him in vain I seek.

Six weeks, beneath the moving sea,
He lay in slumber quietly:
Unforced, by wind or wave,
To quit the ship for which he died,
(All claims of duty satisfied;)
And there they found him at her side,
And bore him to the grave.

Vain service! yet not vainly done,
For this, if other end were none,
That he, who had been cast
Upon a way of life unmeet
For such a gentle soul and sweet,
Should find an undisturb'd retreat
Near what he loved, at last;

That neighbourhood of grove and field
To him a resting-place should yield.
A meek man and a brave!
The birds shall sing, and ocean make
A mournful murmur, for his sake;
And though, sweet flower, shalt sleep and wake
Upon his senseless grave!

Another Sonnet - William Wordsworth

I'm still making my way through Wordsworth's Poetical Works, and came across another sonnet I enjoyed. This one (entitled November, 1806) relates to Napoleon's progress through Europe, and really conveys the poet's anxiety and fear much more directly and powerfully than most of his others.

Another year! another deadly blow!
Another mighty empire overthrown!
And we are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dares to struggle with the foe.
'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought:
That by our own right hands it must be wrought,
That we must stand unpropp'd, or be laid low.
O dastard, whom such foretaste doth not cheer!
We shall exult, if they that rule the land
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a venal band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour, which they do not understand.

I have to say, I do like that last couplet.

Sonnet - William Wordsworth

I'm working my way through Wordsworth's Poetical Works at the moment (1867 edition, or possibly earlier - definitely the oldest in my collection so far), and came across a sonnet, entitled simply 'Written in London, September, 1802'. Sorry about the poor quality of the image, my camera phone doesn't like taking pictures in focus of anything less than a couple of metres away. The text on the inside cover reads: "A birthday gift from Mrs Pearson, Febry 7th 1867". It was in the library of the University of Wales, Aberystwyth, until presumably being sold ex libris at some point, and then was discovered in a second-hand bookshop by me a couple of years ago.

I was struck by how relevant the sentiment of this sonnet is today - this is essentially a complaint about materialism and celebrity culture ruining the standards of life, written more than 200 years ago.

O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, oppress'd
To think that now our life is only dress'd
For show: mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now, in Nature or in book,
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone, our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.