The Asparagus Trench

I'd never heard of John Lodwick, but this memoir of his Edwardian childhood under the aegis of his formidable Victorian grandfather is a delight. Here's a passage that made me laugh out loud. Somehow I'm picturing Stephen Fry.

[O]nce or twice, if I was bottom in Geometry or Algebra - both subjects which he despised - he would deign to accompany me himself, back to school, on a Sunday evening, and observing the crowd of jeering boys who greeted our arrival, would say: “Ha! I am glad to see you are popular.”
After which, dismounting, he would wave the starting handle: “Back, you young curs, back.”

An interview with Basil Bowers, the Headmaster, followed; always very much to my advantage, since the latter had been at school with my father: “Well, Basil. I said you'd never grow much. Still fond of liquorice, I dare say...What's that? Don't mumble.”
Then, with a wink at me: “Caned his bottom many a time for stealing apples. Suppose he now thinks he can cane yours.”

“Won't you put that thing down, sir, and have a glass of sherry?” Bowers pointed to the starting handle.

“All in good time. What's this about your father being made a bishop? I see the hand of Rome behind it. Why, I remember taking a catapult away from him in church once.”

These two imparadis'd

I mean can you really see the star of The Hangover (1 and 2) and He's Just Not That Into You as the fallen archangel, brooding over lovely Eden, designing monstrous vengeance on Almighty God?

Sight hateful, sight tormenting! thus these two
Imparadis’d in one anothers arms
The happier Eden, shall enjoy their fill
Of bliss on bliss, while I to Hell am thrust,
Where neither joy nor love, but fierce desire,
Among our other torments not the least,
Still unfulfill’d with pain of longing pines;
Yet let me not forget what I have gain’d
From their own mouths; all is not theirs it seems:
One fatal Tree there stands of Knowledge call’d,
Forbidden them to taste: Knowledge forbidd’n?
Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord
Envie them that? can it be sin to know,
Can it be death? and do they onely stand
By Ignorance, is that their happy state,
The proof of their obedience and their faith?
O fair foundation laid whereon to build
Their ruin! Hence I will excite their minds
With more desire to know, and to reject
Envious commands, invented with design
To keep them low whom knowledge might exalt
Equal with Gods; aspiring to be such,
They taste and die: what likelier can ensue?
But first with narrow search I must walk round
This Garden, and no corner leave unspied;
A chance but chance may lead where I may meet
Some wandring Spirit of Heav’n, by Fountain side,
Or in thick shade retir’d, from him to draw
What further would be learnt. Live while ye may,
Yet happy pair; enjoy, till I return,
Short pleasures, for long woes are to succeed.

To Abel, who arrived today

in

Welcome, small one. I looked forward to your coming. Now that you're here, named, having a face and fingers and your ten toes, I wish I was there with you, that I could meet you and hold you and tell your parents how beautiful. Soon, I hope. You are a gift to us. First son of the first son. You don't yet know what you mean to us. But I hope you will. I hope you never doubt it. And I hope you like us.

Stopping the press

Just when you think the world is going to the dogs, the dogs get busted doing something we all agree is still wrong. I don't think I'm the only one confessing to an unholy schadenfreude about Mr Murdoch's very public disgrace. It is right and just for crimes to be exposed and punished, but it's also very satisfying that a vile culture like the one of Murdoch's making should be turned inside out, exposing the pale wriggling creatures of its underside; that the baying press and marauding paparazzi should be turned back on those who have brandished both without scruple, and without honour.

At the same time, is my righteous pleasure in this downfall any different from the sentiments News of the World was feeding? Wasn't it scandal and disgrace that sold papers to seven and a half million people every Sunday? Aren't the reputable papers protesting rather too much, even as they print photos of Murdoch shielding himself from the paparazzi glare?

Possibly, but I think Murdoch is culpable nonetheless: culpable for turning the good and useful human capacity for outrage into appetite, and then pumping it full to bursting, to obesity.