Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
And a cheerier note struck by George Eliot in a letter: “Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love - that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one's very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."
Just encountered this in Helen Garner’s How to End a Story: “Yesterday I picked up Naipaul’s Enigma of Arrival and read the opening sentences: ‘For the first four days it rained. I hardly knew where I was.’ A quiet and dignified first-person voice: instant calm. The struggle went out of me.” (1989)
I particularly appreciate this book because much of it is set in Gloucester where I was born. Naipaul was married to a former pupil of Denmark Road High School for Girls. Naipaul lived for a time on Midland Road which I visited on one occasion to meet my girlfriend’s Aunty Vera. Another famous resident of Midland Road was Fred West. I think one of his victims was buried there.
Are you suggesting that the mood or spirit of Little Dorrit is somehow 'autumnal'? That's a nice passage you've quoted, though the novel begins in burning sun (in Marseilles).
One of my Dad's favorites:
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
Top stuff
What an amazing book!
And a cheerier note struck by George Eliot in a letter: “Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love - that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one's very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."
Almost Dickensian
Mind, I have just been to her home town of Nuneaton – and I were a bird flying around the world seeking successive autumns, I might give that a miss.
Beautiful selections,possibly contrary to the atmosphere they brightened my day.So much to read so little time.
Isn’t the Naipaul sublime
Sparkling,so poetic that I wonder if it crosses the line to poetry.Technically I could be all sorts of wrong but that’s my impression.
Oh yeah he’s writing something like prose poetry to be sure
just read this for the first time
A gorgeous piece, which invites us to think of other examples. Virtuosity that's seemingly casual, inviting.
I bought this on the strength of your earlier recommendation. It’s all you say it is! Thank you
Thanks for this beautiful selection.
Beautiful! And poor Jane!
Just encountered this in Helen Garner’s How to End a Story: “Yesterday I picked up Naipaul’s Enigma of Arrival and read the opening sentences: ‘For the first four days it rained. I hardly knew where I was.’ A quiet and dignified first-person voice: instant calm. The struggle went out of me.” (1989)
I particularly appreciate this book because much of it is set in Gloucester where I was born. Naipaul was married to a former pupil of Denmark Road High School for Girls. Naipaul lived for a time on Midland Road which I visited on one occasion to meet my girlfriend’s Aunty Vera. Another famous resident of Midland Road was Fred West. I think one of his victims was buried there.
Are you suggesting that the mood or spirit of Little Dorrit is somehow 'autumnal'? That's a nice passage you've quoted, though the novel begins in burning sun (in Marseilles).
Best wishes,
Michael