Books – Page 11 – derrickjknight

Over The Bridge

In 1955, when he first essayed into the world of autobiography, Richard Church was already a well established author.

At birth, in 1893, he had entered a world of gas lights, lamplighters, muffin men, horse drawn cabs, solid-tyred bicycles. His first eight years overlapped Queen Victoria’s last.

Living near enough to walk to The Mall, young Richard witnessed the queen’s coach in her diamond jubilee procession of 1897 and four years later her funeral.

His life therefore heralded a new millennium and all the changes that went with it.

As befits the poet the writer was, his splendid descriptive prose of flowing, resonating, language is so beguiling as to render it beautiful for itself, quite apart from his sensitivity to his memories.

He writes honestly with considerable insight into the family relationships in the family of four, including his beloved parents and brother Jack. Despite flaws, imbalances and darknesses we are in no doubt of the joy in the household. Church’s analyses of all their personalities are candid and credible.

I won’t attempt to précis the work, but so say that his depictions of the London of his time, including starting of in Battersea and move to Dulwich resonate strongly in the Londoner in me; tossing up sycamore leaves and watching them gyrating and rocking to the ground we all played helicopters, except that Church had no word for them when the flying machines had not yet been invented; the five year old’s magical awe when, provided with his first spectacles, he could recognise sharp detail in the world around him, is palpable.

This acutely myopic and sickly child gained access to a Convalescent cure because his father gained access to the Civil Service Medical Officer who made the referral which strengthened the boy despite it being a traumatic wrench over the residential period.

The drawing which appears on the book jacket is of The Author in Later Life by Robert Austin, R.A.

The author’s philosophy of life is woven into this first volume of autobiography. It is enough of a recommendation that as soon as I have posted this, I will open the next one.

On The Beach

This morning I watched a recording of last night’s rugby World Cup quarter final between Ireland and New Zealand, and this afternoon that between England and Fiji.

The rest of the day was spent completing my reading of

The copy I inherited from my Auntie Ivy contained a strip of glued

paper which I used as a bookmark.

Even before I reached “Here he learned for the first time of the Russo-Chinese war that had flared up out of the Israeli-Arab war….” on page 9 I had the sense that we were to be embroiled in a disaster to humanity displaying Shute’s prophetic facility. He only pinpointed one aspect of a world bent on self destruction, but did so chillingly, especially bearing in mind where we are at the moment on so many fronts.

We have a love story set against the background of the surge of radiation relentlessly progressing from the north to the south of the globe, where humanity is not expected to survive more than an ever decreasing few months.

With so many echoes of people’s responses to today’s various crises the author warns of what could be to come. His protagonists respond variously with scientific research, denial, resignation, planning for a future they cannot expect to have, partying, and preparation.

The compelling story keeps us gripped and scarcely daring to hope that all will eventually be well. The natural world may survive, but will humanity?

This evening we all dined on succulent roast chicken, fried potatoes and onions, meaty gravy, crunchy carrots, firm broccoli and Brussels sprouts., with which Jackie drank more Lieblich and I drank Doom Bar.

Stevenson’s Treasure Island

I spent the day completing my rereading, reviewing and scanning the illustrations of

First published in 1883, this perennial work was issued in this form by Eyre & Spottiswoode in 1949 and repeated by Methuen Children’s Books Ltd in 1976.

It is perhaps every boy’s dream adventure involving a map of hidden treasure, swashbuckling heroes, piratical villains, skullduggery, marooning, betrayal, impossible heroics, murder, battles on land and on sea, a mystery island, and much more, crafted by that master storyteller, Robert Louis Stevenson, with full use of his excellent flowing prose descriptive of trees, shrubs, terrain, sea, and landscape, with his symbolism of night and day, light and dark, and the vagaries of the weather.

His depicting details of struggling with seamanship and wrestling with dense foliage take the reader into that world to share the exertions.

Peake’s numerous drawings convey the drama and the characterisation of the author.

Robert Newton, in Disney’s first full length feature of the eponymous 1950 film, portrayed Long John Silver as the quintessential pirate, even to the extent of all future pirates following his diction.

This evening we all dined on meaty sausages and fried onions, creamy mash, carrots, spinach and tasty gravy, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Garnacha Old Vines.

Treasure Island Taster

This morning I watched recordings of last night’s rugby World Cup matches between Tonga and Romania and between Fiji and Portugal – the latter being the very last of the pool stage fixtures, and the most thrilling.

Having remembered that my copy of R.L.Stevenson’s “Treasure Island” was illustrated by Mervin Peake it seemed a good idea to reread this for my next Books post. I therefore read half of it today, and if I can complete it tomorrow will review this powerfully illustrated version.

In the meantime I offer a scan of the book jacket which has to be presented in two sections since it is too large a format for my scanner.

This evening we all dined on rolled breast of lamb; boiled new potatoes; carrots, cauliflower, broccoli stems, and meaty gravy with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Garnacha Old Vines.

World Wide Web 1960

Early this morning I watched a recording of last night’s rugby World Cup match between Ireland and Scotland, and later that between Japan and Argentina live.

In her comments on

Burley Park Steam Fair

my blogging friend Lakshmi Bhat stated that the post reminded her of Nevil Shute’s “Trustee from the Toolroom”.

I had thought this not a book of which I knew. Later I remembered that a number of books by this author had been included in my Auntie Ivy Lynch’s library which she had bequeathed my decades ago.

Here is the jacket of the copy that bears Ivy’s signature.

Despite some of his works having been filmed I had not realised that the author was such an accomplished storyteller. This, his last novel, is skilfully crafted from start to finish.

It tells of the tragic death of a couple whose daughter was being cared for by the main protagonist and his wife, and consequent adoption of the child by the unexpected trustee. A hidden fortune and its discovery are the reason for a trip round the world for an ordinary, humble, man who had never before left his small London suburb, and who, after the extraordinary circumstances of his adventure remains with his personal values unshaken.

Had I not been one of Lakshmi’s blogging network, she would neither have read my “Burley Park Steam Fair” nor recommended the book. Nevil Shute could not have known about this community, yet the similarities of the development of friendships around the world based on respect for the magazine articles of Keith Stewart and his faithful correspondence with his readers is remarkably striking. Many of those who combine to help him on his journey have never met in person, nor ever will, yet he holds their respect through his regular responses to their queries, and to his acknowledged expertise.

As befits the aeronautical engineer that Shute was, he pays incredible attention to detail, which, when dealing with technical matters, cause my eyes to glaze over. This also affects the flow of his prose, tending to divert my attention. However, I did not wish to miss anything and was carried away on the waves. Everything is in its proper place and fixes the elements together.

Characterisation is developed through action rather than insights; we can discern who is and is not to be trusted, and experience the helpful tenderness exhibited by many.

Regular readers will appreciated my interest in what is left inside books. I wonder what my aunt was doing with this pressed curl of ribbon.

With our grandfamily dining out for their wedding anniversary, I enjoyed leftovers from last night with Hacienda Uvanis Garnacha Old Vines 2020, while the Culinary Queen chose cheese on toast, each slice topped with a fried egg, accompanied by Hoegaarden

Doctor Jekyll & Mr Hyde

Early this morning I watched a recording of last night’s rugby World Cup match between South Africa and Tonga.

Later I posted

Moons For Denzil

being a submission for the latest challenge from denzilnature.com

The whole world knows that the phrase Jekyll and Hyde indicates a person with two sides to their personality – one good and one evil. But how many people, even if they know that this originates in Robert Louis Stevenson’s masterpiece of insightful depiction of humanity’s dual nature; still more how many of us know the detail of the mystery, horror, and science fiction encompassed in this short novel?

Mervyn Peake, author and illustrator of his own Gormenghast trilogy, was an inspired choice of illustrator for

of which

these are the boards.

With honest revelations of his own duality Stevenson made use of his personal early life in producing a first version which pleased him, in three days, then falling into a rage when his wife – his best critic – told him it wouldn’t do. The next day he burnt it, acknowledged that she was right, and wrote what we have today in three more days. I am indebted to John Hampden’s knowledgable and literary introduction for this information.

The author’s complex and insightful observation of human nature is used to full effect as he explores his theme.

Having presented the illustrations as double spreads in order to display some of the prose I trust I have not really given too much detail of the story which is the author’s vehicle for his exploration. The results of a disastrous experiment are only revealed after the climax.

Stevenson’s customary use of weather conditions; the play of light and dark; and night and day in order to portray the mood of the story even penetrated my own reading experience. The morning had been dull, dry, warm, and overcast. Suddenly, in mid afternoon, a flash of lightning was seen through our window; we were plunged into darkness, before which we had had no need of our electric lights; a clap of thunder sent the garden birds scattering as if a raptor were in the air; and glistening leaves on the trees threw off bouncing raindrops. This was when I had reached the crescendo of the book.

Later, as in one of the last pages I read a description of bright spring day, I realised we didn’t need our electric lights any more.

This evening we all dined on Jackie’s chicken jalfrezi and korma according to our preference; peshwari naan; pilau rice; and vegetable samosas, with which she finished the Zesty and I drank more of the Shiraz.

The Body-Snatcher

This morning I watched last night’s recorded rugby World Cup match between Japan and Samoa.

“William Burke and William Hare, (respectively, born 1792, Orrery, Ireland—died January 28, 1829, Edinburgh, Scotland; flourished 1820s, Londonderry, Ireland), pair of infamous murderers for profit who killed their victims and sold the corpses to an anatomist for purposes of scientific dissection.

Hare immigrated to Scotland from Ireland and wandered through several occupations before becoming keeper of a lodging house in Edinburgh, where Burke, also Irish-born, arrived in 1827. On November 29 an old pensioner died in the house, and Hare, angry that the deceased still owed 4 pounds in rent, devised a plan to steal the corpse from its coffin and sell it to recover the money he was owed. With Burke’s aid, the pair sold the corpse to Robert Knox, a surgeon, for 7 pounds 10 shillings. The profit led the two men, assisted by their common-law wives, during the following months to entice at least 15 unknown wayfarers into the lodging house, where they got them intoxicated and then smothered them (in order to leave no trace of violence). Afterward, they sold the corpses to Knox’s school of anatomy. Burke and Hare were exposed when neighbours and police discovered their murder of a local woman on October 31, 1828.

Hare turned king’s evidence and, along with his wife, Margaret, testified against Burke and his wife, Helen. Hare eventually was released, never to be heard from again. Burke was tried for murder, found guilty, and hanged. In his confession, Burke exonerated Knox of all knowledge of the crimes, but some years passed before Knox lived down the condemnations of the public and the press. Helen was released after the jury found that the charges against her were “not proven.” She later moved but was haunted by vigilantes seeking her death.” (https://www.britannica.com/biography/William-Burke-and-William-Hare)

Burke and Hare were undoubtedly the models for those who supplied Stevenson’s Mr K with subjects for dissection in the title and final story of the Folio Society’s collection which I read this afternoon.

Our author put his own stamp on the story. Using lanterns and candle light illuminating snatches of a pitch black shape-changing figures and soaking precipitation to set the scene in his customary way. The alcoholic wreck of an accomplice of an extremely successful surgeon who as students had dealt in the trade of victims many years before, upon meeting him by surprise, is the vehicle by which Stevenson tells the tale of their crimes, giving us his own spine-chilling conclusion.

Michael Foreman’s frontispiece to the book illustrates this tale.

This evening we all dined on tender roast pork; roast potatoes sweet and standard; firm broccoli and carrots; piquant cauliflower cheese; meaty gravy; apple and other sauces according to taste, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Grenacha Old Vines.

The Story Of A Lie

This morning I watched the recording of last night’s rugby World Cup match between Uruguay and Namibia.

On an overcast day of showers and humidity I read Robert Louis Stevenson’s tale of this post’s title.

The story demonstrates how ultimately cruel it can be to be misguidedly kind. We have two filial relationships – one, where the father has been present throughout a loved life; the other that of a prodigal parasite who turns up to sponge after a lifetime’s absence. One sire is confronted by truth; the other offspring protected from it. Truth condemns the relationship for a decade; the avoidance of it destroys an adult love.

Stevenson’s insight into humanity runs throughout the tale, as does his descriptive power brought into play with simple sentences telling of place and environment. In particular he really taps into the phenomenon of characters in deep despair being oblivious of normal life around them.

Michael Foreman’s illustration to my Folio Society edition depicts a pivotal meeting.

This evening we all dined on cheese centred haddock fishcakes; piquant cauliflower cheese; with cauliflower leaves; boiled new potatoes; fried tomatoes; a crunchy carrots, with which Jackie drank more of the Zesty and I drank Hacienda Uvanis Garnacha Old Vines 2020.

The Beach Of Falesá

This morning Jackie and I transported ten used compost bags of green refuse to Efford Recycling Centre.

After lunch I read The Beach of Falesá, being the next tale in my Folio Society collection of Robert Louis Stevenson’s stories.

Five chapters progressing from largely well crafted dialogue with excellent descriptions of place and scenario, increasing apace to a thrilling crescendo of action provide romance, mystery, superstition, deception, blending of cultures, and sexual exploitation, from the pen of a master of narrative and suspense. There is a touch of the racial attitudes of the times, yet expressed with sensitivity.

Light, shade, and weather play their part in setting the scenes whilst engaging sight and sound, brilliantly portrayed by the use of a moving lantern’s effect on scale in a pitch dark eerie wood crackling underfoot at nighttime.

Here is Michael Foreman’s dramatic illustration.

Our young family arrived home in time for dinner, which included roast chicken thighs; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots, firm cauliflower, tender green beans and meaty gravy, with which I was the only imbiber – of more of the Montepulciano.

Markheim

Although the temperature was warm outside this morning and the winds as strong as they had been throughout the night, there was no rain until it bucketed down from about 11 a.m. onwards. I therefore accompanied Jackie as she delivered the elderly Modus to the dealer and collected her sprightly four year old Hyundai i10.

In the meantime Ronan and a colleague from Tom Sutton Heating fixed an oil leak by fitting a faulty valve, and I remained inside for the rest of the day while heavy rain continued into the night.

I submitted

Spiders, Prey, Webs

to Denzil Nature for this week’s challenge. All but the first picture are from my archives.

Reminiscent of Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” is “Markheim”, the next of the Robert Louis Stevenson’s stories in my Folio Society collection, which I read this afternoon.

As Michael Foreman’s illustration shows, we learn pretty quickly that Markheim is a murderer, trapped by his fears into remaining in the victim’s shop wrestling with the consequences of his guilt and the temptations of the personification of his conscience.

The building itself, empty but for the corpse, brings dread as the perpetrator, anticipating there may be someone else within, searches for further riches which he knows he would squander.

Haunted by his imagination and his need for redemption, Markheim struggles over how to respond as the moment of discovery draws nearer. I will leave the author to reveal this.

Later, I watched the second half of the rugby World Cup match between Italy and Uruguay.

This evening we all dined on Jackie’s wholesome chicken and vegetable soup and fresh crusty bread, with which I drank more of the Côtes du Rhône Villages and no-one else did.