Jack Gilbert 1925-2012

Thankful today, that the world was made a more beautiful, more honest place by this man. 

And just one of his poems that I carry with me every day, (and one of my all time favourite opening lines):

Failing and Flying

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

I don't have any words that feel good enough or big enough to celebrate this writer who changed me. Thank you, Jack. 

Surviving your PhD

 I wanted to write a post about my PhD, but the trouble is that writing about your research can be a minefield. While there is much about the internet and the access it provides to so many ideas that is wonderful and that makes my job as a researcher easier and more enjoyable, I also find myself coming up against problems that people haven't quite worked out the answer to yet. For example, it is difficult for me to write about my current research on this blog because then that information exists 'out there', and if the world already has access to all your brilliant new ideas then they stop being so brilliant and new, and who is going to want to publish them? This instinct to protect your work is complicated by a desire to celebrate what is brilliant about the internet- we can share ideas instantly,with so many people, and out of this collaborative experience can come great work that is marked by a sense of freshness and immediacy.

While I struggle to make sense of all this, I thought it may be interesting to share some of my own experience of working on a PhD so far. Everybody works differently, but this is the strange, slightly fraught, system that I have built for myself. Recently I have been really struggling to tame an unruly chapter and looking at these pictures they fail to convey the feelings of despair, joy, stress, and just plain lunacy that accompanied the process.
My research always starts with a massive pile of books. I read these, make notes on them, mark pages,split them into common themes, and generally feel upset that after every working day I have nothing to show for myself. This can be a common frustration for me. The writing - the word count - tends to happen very quickly at the end, but before that come weeks of painful slog where I seem to be working very hard and producing very little. I am much more at peace with this bit of the process than I used to be as I trust myself a lot more, but it can still be frustrating. This kind of research is slow and laborious, and would not make a good 'Rocky' style montage. After this I try to make some kind of plan by noting all the different ideas I've come across and how I want to try and fit them together. This usually results in a mad scrawl with lots of arrows pointing everywhere as my excited, tea-fuelled brain comes to the conclusion that 'EVERYTHING IS CONNECTED!!!' and a lot of exclamation marks and capital letters start creeping in everywhere.This is one of my favourite bits. Nothing beats that light bulb moment when you can see how everything fits together. I think this is especially rewarding because so much of what you do up until this point is based on instinct, and every time it falls into place your trust in yourself as a researcher grows. Sometimes I won't quite know why I've chosen to follow certain avenues of research, but these seeming tangents often offer me the most innovative insights into a text.

The picture on the left shows all my lovely chapter notes typed up and put into sections. I have to see all the notes in front of me on bits of paper so that I can move them all around until I have them in the best order. After that the actual writing happens very fast. I think that's another reason why putting in so much groundwork works for me- I like to be able to write very quickly, and to keep the style of the thing quite loose and fluid. I suppose the work is quite dense but I don't want it to read that way.
At this point it may be worth stressing how important it is to take breaks. At first I found this really difficult, but  just because you love your job doesn't mean you don't need to take regular time off from it. It's lovely being able to structure my own working days, but I know myself better now, I know how much the quality of my work tails off if I try to log ludicrous hours, and feeling guilty about enjoying my work and then having 'free time' as well doesn't help anyone. I know how lucky I am, and I don't take it for granted... this PhD is one of the most challenging, stressful, frustrating things I have ever done and I absolutely love it.

Geocaching and Kenneth Rexroth

Hello friends,

It's been a while. The trouble with doing any large research project is that no matter how hard you try to set many small deadlines they inevitably snowball into one giant looming deadline and eat up a month of your life. Now work is going well and I feel like I can stop, breathe, look around me. Happy.

This is excellent news because it coincided with a visit from our dear friend, Ruth, and a big adventure. I have discovered Geocaching. Maybe I'm waaaay behind the times on this. Maybe you all already know about Geocaching (but, if so, why, why didn't you tell me??!). The map on their website certainly makes it look like I am the last person on this planet to find out about it.

Paul with our first find

For the uninitiated, Geocaching is the grown up (or child-friendly) treasure hunt that will make your heart happy. People hide caches of all different sizes in all different places and upload the coordinates to the website, then you stick in the postcode of where you are and set off to find some near you. We live in the middle of nowhere and there are hundreds hidden on our doorstep. In our (so far extremely limited) experience these geocaches are tricksy things with log books inside so that when you (eventually) find them you can write your name on the list and walk on with that small glow of satisfaction that comes from secret keeping. I understand that there are many different kinds of cache in existence and that some house treasure like toys and sweets, but to be honest the excitement of finding one is reward enough. There are several things about this that are truly brilliant. Firstly, there are millions of them. I mean, the scale is ridiculous and so wherever you are RIGHT NOW you are probably near one and you don't realise. Isn't that a sort of deliciously exciting prospect?(When we first looked, the nearest one to us was 0.2 miles away...only the torrential rain outside stopped us from running out the house there and then.) Secondly, people hide them in beautiful, weird, wonderful places that you may not visit otherwise. We had a glorious Sunday morning walk thanks to the efforts of Geocachers in our area. Thirdly, it's a treasure hunt that feels the same as treasure hunts felt when you were little, except this time you get to hold your phone like a compass because we live in the future. It's just lovely, and magical, and creative, and it is a thing people do to bring joy to others, to share a nice walk with them. I think that's something special.

Ruth and Paul...See! How much joy!

Another thing that has been on my mind this week has been Kenneth Rexroth's poem 'Signature of All Things'. I got so many lovely messages about the Mary Oliver post and a feeling of timeliness that went with it, so I thought you may enjoy this. Although Rexroth describes a 'deep July day' there is something about this poem that seems so of this moment to me. I think the taut, beautiful language owes much to his brilliant translations of Chinese and Japanese poetry, and the result is somehow peaceful and soul-stirring all at once.

Signature of All Things

The view from our house, Sunday night.

I

My head and shoulders, and my book                
In the cool shade, and my body
Stretched bathing in the sun, I lie
Reading beside the waterfall –
Boehme's 'Signature of all Things.'
Through the deep July day the leaves
Of the laurel, all the colors
Of gold, spin down through the moving
Deep laurel shade all day. They float
On the mirrored sky and forest
For a while, and then, still slowly
Spinning, sink through the crystal deep
Of the pool to its leaf gold floor.
The saint saw the world as streaming
In the electrolysis of love.
I put him by and gaze through shade
Folded into shade of slender
Laurel trunks and leaves filled with sun.
The wren broods in her moss domed nest.
A newt struggles with a white moth
Drowning in the pool. The hawks scream,
Playing together on the ceiling
Of heaven. The long hours go by.
I think of those who have loved me,
Of all the mountains I have climbed,
Of all the seas I have swum in.
The evil of the world sinks.
My own sin and trouble fall away
Like Christian's bundle, and I watch
My forty summers fall like falling
Leaves and falling water held
Eternally in summer air.

2

Deer are stamping in the glades,
Under the full July moon.
There is a smell of dry grass
In the air, and more faintly,
The scent of a far off skunk.
As I stand at the wood's edge,
Watching the darkness, listening
To the stillness, a small owl
Comes to the branch above me,
On wings more still than my breath.
When I turn my light on him,
His eyes glow like drops of iron,
And he perks his head at me,
Like a curious kitten.
The meadow is bright as snow.
My dog prows the grass, a dark
Blur in the blur of brightness
I walk to the oak grove where
The Indian village was once.
There, in blotched and cobwebbed light
And dark, dim in the blue haze,
Are twenty Holstein heifers,
Black and white, all lying down,
Quietly together, under
The huge trees rooted in the graves.

3

When I dragged the rotten log
From the bottom of the pool,
It seemed heavy as stone.
I let it lie in the sun
For a month; and then chopped it
Into sections, and split them
For kindling, and spread them out
To dry some more. Late that night;
After reading for hours,
While moths rattled at the lamp,
The saints and the philosophers
On the destiny of man;
I went out on my cabin porch,
And looked up through the black forest
At the swaying islands of stars.
Suddenly I saw at my feet,
Spread on the floor of night, ingots
Of quivering phosphorescence,
And all about were scattered chips
Of pale cold light that was alive.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

This is not the cover I have... but look how pretty!

'The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society' is a rare book. Perhaps its feeling of rarity is underpinned by the fact that it is the first and last book by Mary Ann Shaffer who sadly passed away before the manuscript was completely finished. (It was completed by her niece, Annie Barrows, who is listed as the co-author of the book.) I read this book as one of those rare treasures- the kind that you can't wait to tear through but that you also can't bear to finish. When I turned over the last page I went back to the first without hesitation and read the book for a second time laughing, crying, and generally feeling that I was in the warming company of good friends. This is an epistolary novel which I thought at first would put me off as it is not my favourite format, but here it is treated perfectly and displays how, sensitively handled, there can be no better way for a writer to truly embody a cast of different characters. I believed in them all utterly. I was completely distraught when I had to leave them.
The book is the correspondence between Juliet Ashton (lovely, lovely character) and a peculiar mixture of individuals who make up a literary society in recently occupied Guernsey. It is extraordinary how cleverly the plot and characterisation are embedded in these letters. If you want an example of 'show don't tell' in writing then this is it. There is something elegant and understated about this quiet book which charmed me completely. When I had finished (for the second time) I pressed the book into Paul's hands with an urgent request to put down what he was reading right now, NOW, and read this because I needed to share it, I needed to talk about it. I think I needed him to make friends with it in that way we have when we press our favourite books onto loved ones. And he did. He loved it too, and we talked and laughed about characters like Isola and Sidney (best of all Isola and Sidney together) like we knew them. I then gave a copy to my mum and talked it up so much to her that I was afraid she would be disappointed. She wasn't, SHE loved it, and when she finished it she took it over to my Nan. When I saw my Nan a couple of weeks ago I asked her what she thought. No surprise, she loved it too, but what was a surprise was that she had had cousins living in occupied Guernsey, right there where the book is set, and she told us about their big house there and how there was a working well actually inside it, and all about her cousins, and what I'm trying to say is that this book was the gift that KEPT ON GIVING. I think it's so special when a book does this, when it brings people together and uncovers thoughts and stories that you might not otherwise hear. This is why my job is the best, why English degrees are the best, because what could be better than sitting and talking about the shared experience of a book read?  'The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society' is something that I have shared, that I have carried around with me ever since. Now, I hope you will read it, or share it, or talk about it, and I hope all this talking it up won't disappoint you.

Just Poetry- Mary Oliver

As I am writing this Lauren Laverne is on Radio 6 asking people to help create an autumn themed playlist. I am working at my desk wrapped up in a cardigan. Outside it is bright and sunny but there is a definite chill in the air. To paraphrase Ned Stark... Autumn is coming. Which is wonderful. I love the autumn. I love back to school and new post it notes and pencil sharpenings. I love it when the leaves start to change. I love snuggling under blankets with a cup of tea and a book, I love scarves and pink cheeks and cold fingers, and hot chocolate. Most of all I love the feeling of 'fresh start' that autumn brings. I wonder if it is because I am so immersed in 'school life' that the start of the academic year always feels like a clean slate to me. I am excited about what this year has to offer.

This poem is one of my favourites. It's right at the top of the list. And to me, this poem feels like autumn. I don't know why. I'm not sure if it's because I first read it in a crisp Tennessee autumn (the most beautiful I have ever seen) or because subconsciously I knew that autumn is when all the wild geese turn up in the UK. (It's true! I just looked it up here. Isn't it strange the things you don't know you know.) This morning I felt a real need to sit down and read it, and it felt good, and warm, and comforting.

Wild Geese

By Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

And, if you can handle any more loveliness:

Happy autumn. 

Much Ado

My not brilliant picture of the actually brilliant set.

Just a quick post. We went to see this brilliant RSC production of Much Ado About Nothing at the Courtyard Theatre in Stratford Upon Avon on Monday. When Paul and I first met we bonded over our shared love of the play and of the Kenneth Branagh/ Emma Thompson film version, so it seemed like such a good sign that our first Stratford theatre experience after moving up here would be a play so special to both of us. We were not disappointed.  Never before had it occurred to me that the plot leant itself so brilliantly to a slice of Bollywood. Paul Bhatacharjee and Meera Syal as Benedick and Beatrice were wonderful- she had me in tears (both kinds). The rest of the cast were great too, even the Dogberry scenes which I have never liked before were perfect, and the music... the music was amazing. You could see everyone wiggling around in their seats because the whole atmosphere was so infectious. I really enjoyed seeing such a fresh interpretation, the way that the dialogue stood up so well to such a creative rendering is testament to the timelessness of the play, to the flexibility and immense possibility ever present in language. Funny, moving, truly joyful, if you can catch it then I would highly recommend doing so. Here is a trailer that gives you a little taste of things:

Mr Gum... and Elizabeth Bowen

"summer was almost at an end and the day stretched out long and lazy like a huge glossy panther made of time"- Andy Stanton, Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire

When Paul's niece and nephew came to stay with us last week we spent two evenings with all four of us propped up on the spare bed laughing like drains and taking it in turns to read Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire by Andy Stanton. What a joyful experience it is to read aloud like this, and one which I don't get to do often enough. The Mr Gum books are a particularly wonderful example of this pleasure because they mix an offbeat sense of humour with a sort of madcap poetry. The quote above was right at the start of the book and I found myself turning it over in my mind for days afterwards. It's just so...pleasing. As an image, as a sound, as a celebration of language. And it was in a children's book. I have a real passion for children's literature both because I was an avid reader as a child and because as an adult I still find a very specific kind of imaginative escapism may only be found in reading children's books. It is because of this love of children's literature that I found myself running a children's bookshop for a while, and why I have taken care to carve out a space for children's literature in my thesis. 

It is funny how these things come about in research, how every so often you will read something that stays with you and somehow shapes what comes after it in your work. This happened for me when I read Elizabeth Bowen's essay 'Out of a Book' while researching my MA dissertation. I knew even as I was reading it that I was changing, that some chord had been struck. I read with a gleam of recognition, of words that made manifest half thoughts that my brain hadn't been able to verbalise. Any reader will know this feeling and when it happens it is such a moment of elation... a moment in which a text and an author become a friend and kindred spirit.

Elizabeth Bowen

"I know that I have in my make-up layers of synthetic experience, and that the most powerful of my memories are only half true.

Reduced to the minimum, to the what did happen, my life would be unrecognizable by me. Those layers of fictitious memory densify as they go deeper down. And this surely must be the case with everyone else who reads deeply, ravenously, unthinkingly, sensuously, as a child."

"The child lives in the book; but just as much the book lives in the child. I mean that, admittedly, the process of reading is reciprocal; the book is no more than a formula, to be furnished out with images out of the reader's mind. At any age, the reader must come across: the child reader is the most eager and quick to do so; he not only lends to the story, he flings into the story the whole of his sensuous experience which from being limited is the more intense. Book dishes draw saliva to the mouth; book fears raise gooseflesh and make the palms clammy; book suspense makes the cheeks burn and the heart thump. Still more, at the very touch of a phrase there is a surge of brilliant visual images: the child rushes up the scenery for the story." -Elizabeth Bowen, 'Out of a Book' in The Mulberry Tree

This is what I meant earlier when I talked about that specific escapism to be found in children's books. It is because for me they hold the echo of those periods of childhood reading, of trembling hands pressed to pink cheeks and heart thudding excitement and physical sensation born of a total immersion in the other world and other life on offer between the pages of a book. Andy Stanton's 'huge glossy panther made of time' is one of those phrases Bowen speaks of, one whose very touch creates a surge of brilliant visual images, and it is because this image called out the child reader in me that it has remained in my mind long after the book itself has been put away.