John Cleary, 1917 - 2010

Australian author of nearly 60 novels John Cleary died on Monday aged 92.  I confess to having read none of his novels, but I enjoyed reading his obituary, which you can read  here.   I was struck by this quote:

“I did not have the intellectual depth to be the writer I would like to be, so I determined to be as good a craftsman as I might be.”

Very good advice for aspiring writers. Being conscious of one's limitations can be a great barrier, but perhaps it can be, as it was for Cleary, a spur. A craftsman is not the same thing as an artist, but craft is probably the best diversion from the absence of genius.  Deft and steady craftsmanship will often produce a better result than dazzling but fitful brilliance. One of the most dispiriting criticisms for an author I think would be that she had overreached.

My secret's mine, and I won't tell

Since Autumn is now behind us and Winter is upon is (-2 on the way to work this morning!) here's a gorgeous poem from Christina Rossetti: “Winter My Secret.” See if you can make head or tail of it.

Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.

The moral of the story

I’ve just read Little Women, Good Wives, and What Katy Did, and I’m halfway through What Katy Did at School.  I hadn’t revisited these American classics for some time, and in spite of a grating moralising sentimentality, I’ve found them as engaging and nourishing as I did when I first read them. The lessons I learned from them still guide me.

Even as a child I think I enjoyed a book more if it gave me something besides entertainment; some nugget of truth or instruction that I could carry with me. Of course the moral is no good without the story, but the best stories have morality (either affirmation or subversion) at their core. That’s why authors like Austen, Dickens and Henry James are so enduring. Couched in hugely entertaining prose, they always feature violations and restorations of morality, in varying degrees of subtlety, that manage to transcend cultural and historical conditions. Avant-garde stories with absent or amorphous moralities might intrigue, but they rarely captivate us in the same way that tragic moral desecrations or comic moral restitutions so lastingly do.

A modest proposal

About three weeks ago I received my first (serious) proposal of marriage. To my great relief it was very unromantic, consisting of only four words, but it did make me think about great literary proposals and betrothals, so I’ve collected some of my favourites here. Please add to them if you think of any others!  (I said yes, by the way.)

from Much Ado About Nothing

Benedick. A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.
Beatrice. I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great  persuasion; and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.
Benedick. Peace! I will stop your mouth.

from Persuasion – Captain Wentworth’s letter.

"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W. I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."

from Jane Eyre. There are two proposal scenes in Jane Eyre, both magnificent but both very long. You can read the first one here and the second here.

from The Importance of Being Earnest

Jack. Gwendolen, I must get christened at once—I mean we must get married at once. There is no time to be lost.
Gwendolen. Married, Mr. Worthing?
Jack. [Astounded.] Well… surely. You know that I love you, and you led me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me.
Gwendolen. I adore you. But you haven’t proposed to me yet. Nothing has been said at all about marriage. The subject has not even been touched on.
Jack. Well… may I propose to you now?
Gwendolen. I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you quite frankly before-hand that I am fully determined to accept you.
Jack. Gwendolen!
Gwendolen. Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to me?
Jack. You know what I have got to say to you.
Gwendolen. Yes, but you don’t say it.
Jack. Gwendolen, will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.]
Gwendolen. Of course I will, darling. How long you have been about it! I am afraid you have had very little experience in how to propose.

If you want to read the rest of this one, you can find it here.

from The Pickwick Papers (my favourite). Mr Pickwick is contemplating employing a manservant (Sam Weller), but his landlady Mrs Bardell misinterprets him.

'Mrs. Bardell,' said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes.

'Sir,' said Mrs. Bardell again.

'Do you think it a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one?'

'La, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; 'La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!'

'Well, but do you?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. […]

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look.  She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire.  Mr. Pickwick was going to propose--a deliberate plan, too--sent her little boy to the Borough, to get him out of the way--how thoughtful--how considerate! […]

'And your little boy--' said Mr. Pickwick […] will have a companion,' resumed Mr. Pickwick, 'a lively one, who'll teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn in a year.'  And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly.

'Oh, you dear--' said Mrs. Bardell.

Mr. Pickwick started.

'Oh, you kind, good, playful dear,' said Mrs. Bardell; and without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs.

'Bless my soul,' cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; 'Mrs Bardell, my good woman--dear me, what a situation—pray consider.--Mrs. Bardell, don't--if anybody should come--'

'Oh, let them come,' exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically; 'I'll never leave you --dear, kind, good soul;' and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter.

I highly recommend reading the entire scene, which you can find here.

The world is so full of a number of things

"The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."

This couplet from Robert Louis Stevenson is a miracle of succinct and teasing whimsy. On the face of it, it seems like a joyous celebration of the earth's plenitude, a delight in the endless possibility of life. Yet the word should is a shadow on all this exuberant wonder. In spite of the multitude of things, how many of us are happy? Including, of course, the kings themselves. Perhaps the point is the ironic self-defeat of materialism, the inevitability of what the economists call scarcity: the number of things that exist is always lower than the number required to satisfy human desire. If I was going to scrawl anything across the nursery wall in large curly letters it would be this, but perhaps I would thus condemn my children to a slow and numbing realisation of the real scarcity of happiness.