Books – Page 30 – derrickjknight

The Epic Of Gilgamesh

Prompted by this post https://johnknifton.com/2019/02/02/the-world-of-the-mysterious-2/ from John Knifton I decided that I must read my own copy of

It has waited for 45 years after all. I finished it last week.

John’s excellent research tells the story. I concentrated on the coloured illustrations. The are also smaller black and white woodcuts.

The very large 8vo format makes scanning the double spread of the flood impossible.

As the evening descended, I gradually fell to collapsing myself. I didn’t eat anything, and went up to bed soon after Elizabeth paid a visit.

The Plague

This afternoon I watched the BBC broadcast of the Six Nations rugby match between Scotland and Ireland.

The following three paragraphs have been taken from http://www.beautifulbritain.co.uk/htm/outandabout/eyam.htm

The site contains more information and relevant details.

‘It’s hard to imagine that the quiet village of Eyam, off the A623 in Derbyshire, could have such a fascinating, yet tragic story to tell. But …. at the end of August 1665 bubonic plague arrived at the house of the village tailor George Viccars, via a parcel of cloth from London. The cloth was damp and was hung out in front of the fire to dry, thus releasing the plague infested fleas. On 7th September 1665, George Viccars, the first plague victim, died of a raging fever. As the plague took hold and decimated the villagers it was decided to hold the church services outdoors at nearby Cucklett Delf and, on the advice of rector William Mompesson and the previous incumbent Thomas Stanley, villagers stayed within the confines of the village to minimize the spread of the disease. Cucklett Delf was also the secret meeting place of sweethearts Emmott Sydall, from Eyam, and Rowland Torre, who was from a neighbouring village. They would call to each other across the rocks, until Emmott Sydall herself became a victim of the plague. Six of the eight Sydall family died, and their neighbours lost nine family members.

To minimize cross infection, food and other supplies were left outside the village, at either the Boundary Stones, or at Mompesson’s Well, high above the village. The Earl of Devonshire, who lived at Chatsworth House, freely donated food and medical supplies. For all other goods, money, as payment, was either purified by the running water in the well or was left in vinegar soaked holes. The Riley graves, close to Riley House Farm and approximately 1/2 mile from the village house the bodies of the husband and six children of farmer Elizabeth Hancock. All died within a week of each other. Because of the high risk of infecting her neighbours she had the traumatic task of burying them all herself. Even more tragic is that the infection probably came to her family when she helped bury another villager’s body. Twelve months after the death of George Vicars, the plague was still claiming its victims, and on 25th August 1666 Catherine Mompesson, wife of the recently appointed rector William Mompesson (aged 28) , died of the plague. She had loyally stayed with her husband and tended the sick, only to become a victim herself.

The Plague in Eyam raged for 14 months and claimed the lives of at least 260 villagers. By 1st November 1666 it had run its course and claimed its last victim. Eyam’s selfless villagers, with their strong Christian convictions, had shown immense personal courage and self sacrifice. They had prevented the plague from spreading to other parishes, but many paid the ultimate price for their commitment.’

It would be fascinating to know whether, when he wrote ‘The Plague’, Albert Camus, Algerian winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, had known of the story of Eyam during the 17th Century bubonic plague. He has certainly written a convincing account of life during an enclosed confinement at the mercy of such a pestilence.

Camus stated of his work, first published in 1947 that ‘I wish to express through the plague the suffocation which we have all suffered, and the atmosphere of threat and exile in which we have lived.’ This is an undoubted reference to the German occupation of France. On a broader scale the book could be seen as a metaphor for any oppressive invasion.

As usual I will not reveal details of the tale. There is in fact very little plot, but the writer has evoked the initial disbelief, subsequent reluctant acceptance, psychological isolation, resignation, and despair of most, along with exhausting resistance of a few.

I have not read the original French of ‘La Peste’, but I believe Stuart Gilbert’s translation reflects the author’s flowing, insightful, prose.

My Folio Society edition of 1987, which I finished reading today contains an informative introduction by Derek Parker, and is illustrated with

Linda Kitson’s muscular drawings.

The essential difference between the English village and the town depicted by Camus is that of voluntary sacrifice and imposed isolation.

This evening we dined on Mr Chan’s excellent Hordle Chinese Take Away fare, on trays on our laps while we watched a recording of the earlier match between Wales and Italy.

Empress Of The Senses

Winds had subsided overnight and sunshine has returned. Another very strong storm is predicted for tomorrow. In the meantime

the pink rose stays erect

and the Japanese maple leaves cling to their moorings.

This morning I finished reading:

The front jacket shows the French icon of the demi-monde as a young woman.

On the back she appears in her later years, by which time she had become a celebrity recognised by the literary establishment. The ISBN number of this 1991 publication can be seen beneath the photographs.

Herbert Lottman has written an engaging account. Unlike John Carey whose review was published in The Times Books of 17th March, 1991, I will not précis the life in case my readers will wish to read it for themselves. All I will mention is that Colette’s painful last years is one more reminder of how fortunate I am to live in an era where hip and knee replacements under anaesthetic are commonplace, at least in my culture.

Richard Willson’s excellent newspaper illustration probably reveals enough.

A brief obituary of this prolific caricaturist and political cartoonist appears in https://www.independent.co.uk/news/obituaries/richard-willson-political-cartoonist-and-environmentalist-6281503.html on 26th December 2011

One of my methods of selecting books to read is the review. This one I had slipped inside the book where I will leave it as a marker.
My mother’s frailty has steadily worsened since she was discharged from hospital a fortnight ago. It is clear that she needs 24 hour care, either at home or in a residential establishment. This afternoon we are travelling to her home in the village of West End where we will join in Elizabeth’s discussions on the options with Mum. A Waking Carer will be on hand when we take my sister out for a meal. I doubt whether I will have time to follow this up until tomorrow.

A Home

Today was gloomy, inside and out. Rain persisted throughout; skies and our rooms were most dingy.

Even at midday one could barely see the pale pink winter flowering cherry juxtaposed against the dripping crab apples.

The temperature was, however, warm enough for the nasturtiums and the solanum to keep their shape without becoming their usual flaccid selves at this time of the year.

And dingy inside? That was because we experienced an, albeit anticipated, extended power cut to facilitate the supply being installed in a new house in Hordle Lane.

That did, however, provide us with a perfect excuse to brunch at The Walkford Diner. My All Day Brunch was one of the smallest grilled ensembles on offer. Jackie’s mountainous cheese and onion baked potato was accompanied by a plentiful fresh salad.

From there, we back-tracked to New Milton, where Robert Alan Jewellers fitted two new watch batteries while we waited. We have always been impressed by the service here. Among other previous experiences we bought our wedding rings at this excellent local establishment.

Once our electricity was back in operation, scanning pictures was the order of the afternoon. Elizabeth is seeking inspiration for the decorations to her Swedish wooden house from the splendid designs of Carl and Karin Larsson. She already possessed a copy of Floris Books’, 2006, Carl Larsson’s ‘A Home’ (ISBN 0 – 86315 – 549 -9). This morning I read it myself. Each of the illustrations is accompanied on the facing page by a clear and concise explanatory text.

Here are scans of the front jacket and a few of the wonderful paintings featuring interiors.

Elizabeth is staying with Mum for three nights, so this evening Jackie and I dined on pizza and salad with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Médoc.

Snakes And Ladders

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Unfortunately my internet problem has not been fully resolved. Although my own laptop had been judged innocent yesterday, it devoured 10 GB of data in less than an hour this morning, when I was answering comments on my blog.
There was nothing for it, before Peacock Computers opened shop, but to finish reading ‘Snakes And Ladders’, the second volume of Dirk Bogarde’s autobiography. It’s an ill wind…..
The book is another masterpiece of the genre. The author writes beautifully, with luscious poetic description. He uses a positive plethora of apposite adjectives and adverbs; and has a superb grasp of dialogue. The title is a metaphor for life and its ups and downs. Just as the board game relies on the luck of the dice, the actor’s career was often directed by good fortune and serendipity. In this volume he takes us from the war years to what he considered the acme of his cinematic career.

The book is generously illustrated with black and white photographs. Bogarde’s drawings are restricted to the endpapers.

‘Snakes and Ladders’ is also a perfect analogy for my struggle to maintain my daily blog. I had to wait to reach Peacock Computers until after lunch. This is because first of all I needed to keep an eye test appointment at Boots in New Milton. This took some time, partly because one of the machines failed to function at first attempt. I had been seated for the site test, but for the pressure test and photographs of the orbs, I was required to stand. Unfortunately it was not possible to raise the machines to accommodate my height, so I had to rest my chin on the necessary platform with my dodgy knees bent. It was rather a good thing that both knees had begun the day in the best condition for a long time.

Alex at Peacock offered to lend me a dongle with their password, pending a visit from James for which I would not be charged. Having been driven by Jackie into Lymington for collection, I am now using that device on my iMac. I carried the errant laptop with me. Nick, who had visited yesterday, checked the machine and discovered fresh evidence enabling him to reopen the case. The device has been refused bail and remains in custody.
Jackie is about to serve up spare ribs with the rest of yesterday’s Chinese Take Away meal. She will drink Hoegaarden and I will drink Cahors Malbec 2016. Elizabeth will wait until later. Normally I post after the meal, but I am afraid of being sent down a ladder all the way to the bottom.

A Postillion Struck By Lightning

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Yesterday evening Shelly produced a splendid roast beef dinner, complete with Yorkshire pudding and perfectly cooked roast potatoes and parsnips, red cabbage, carrots, cauliflower, and swede; followed by fruity Queen of Puddings. Red and white wine, and Hoegaarden was quaffed.

After making more headway today I have only a few more pages of Dirk Bogarde’s first volume of autobiography to finish reading. Shame on me for keeping this excellent book on my shelves for 40 years before opening it. My eyes have been opened to the many talents of the man I remembered as a film star of my earlier years. Bogarde’s writing is poetic, sensitive, humorous when need be, and apparently most honest. The more than competent pen and ink illustrations among the most readable text, and the jacket cover are by his hand. If you would like to know the reason for the title you must read the book.

Sir Derek Jules Gaspard Ulric Niven van den Bogaerde (28 March 1921 – 8 May 1999), known professionally as Dirk Bogarde, was an English actor and writer. Initially a matinée idol in films such as Doctor in the House (1954) for the Rank Organisation, he later acted in art-house films. In a second career, he wrote seven best-selling volumes of memoirs, six novels and a volume of collected journalism, mainly from articles in The Daily Telegraph.
Bogarde came to prominence in films including The Blue Lamp in the early 1950s, before starring in the successful Doctor film series (1954–63). He won the BAFTA Award for Best Actor in a Leading Role; for The Servant (1963) and Darling (1965). His other notable film roles included Victim (1961), Accident (1967), The Damned(1969), Death in Venice (1971), The Night Porter (1974), A Bridge Too Far (1977) and Despair (1978). He was appointed a Commander of the Order of Arts and Letters in 1990 and a Knight Bachelor in 1992. (Wikipedia)
As soon as I have devoured the rest of this work I will open the next one.
Before leaving for East Sussex for a birthday meal for Tess at The Gun in Heathfield I printed a picture of Poppy at Mr & Mrs Steele’s wedding as a card for her mother.
Once more we will be late enough home for me to have to defer commenting on the event until tomorrow.

A History Of The World

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Today I finished enjoying another Bodley Head publication of the collaboration between author Anatole France and illustrator Frank C. Papé. The book was first published in 1908, which has significance for one example of the writer’s prescience. Focussed on France as Penguinia this is a satyrical history of Western Europe in general, with a pop at the United States. As usual, I will not spoil the story with details, save to say that anyone with some knowledge of world history, philosophy, politics, or religion will get the gist of this acute analysis of human nature, society, morals, and customs. The writing from M. France is as flowing as ever, and the final Book VIII chilling in its foresight.
A.W. Evans has provided an excellent translation.

Mr. Papé’s illustrations are as skilled as ever. Do not miss any detail of the exquisite, often humorous, main plates,

or this selection of the black and white tailpieces.

Late this afternoon, Jackie drove the two of us around the forest where

as usual, ponies and donkeys occupied the green at South Gorley. Although this village is now barely a hamlet, the large, now residential, building forming a backdrop for the pony scenes was once a school. The fifth picture contains a familiar view of a pony, legs in the air, scratching its back on the grass.

Around the corner, pigs at pannage snuffled up fallen acorns. One, oblivious of the approaching car, leisurely trotted across the road.

This evening we dined on Mr Pink’s fish and chips and Garner’s pickled onions. Jackie and I drank Wairau Cove Sauvignon Blanc 2017, while Elizabeth finished the Brouilly.

La Reine Pédauque

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Jackie has come to an agreement with Jessica at rusty duck to attempt to preserve this year’s echinaceas by cutting them down whilst in bloom. Our Head Gardener dealt with hers this afternoon. Not wishing to waste the flowers she placed them in a vase.

This afternoon, Danni and her friend, Heather, popped in for a visit, and we all enjoyed a conversation with tea and water on the patio.
Later, I finished reading ‘At The Sign of The Reine Pédauque by Anatole France. My Bodley Head edition, translated by Mrs Wilfrid Jackson, illustrated by Frank C. Papé, and with an insightful introduction by William J Locke.
This historical novel, set at the beginning of the 18th century, has all the humanity and humour that one expects from the Nobel Prizewinner who published it in 1893. Without divulging any of the story, I can say that it tells of a young man’s education in book learning and in life from a man of God very much a man of the World with very human desires; contrasting with this teacher is a philosophising alchemist; there are intrigues and disappointments with women, and a certain amount of wine drinking. The prose flows with simple elegance; the descriptions are often poetic; the characterisation is excellent. The tale is well crafted and completed to perfection. I found I needed to tolerate the early pages with their references to ancient and classical authors. The translator added explanatory footnotes for those of a more classical bent. After that the story romped along.
The illustrator’s skilled, elegant, humorous, decorations would enhance any book. As always, these repay close scrutiny.
Regular readers will know that I have been struggling with my teenage scanner lately. It has done me proud for a dozen or so years. The replacement is an updated version of the same model, and made much easier my task of scanning

the gilded front board which would support my assessment that ‘Pédauque’ is an old French word for with goose feet; the end papers; the main plates;

and a sample of the tail pieces and other vignettes. The text on these latter images gives a flavour of the translated prose.

This evening the three of dined at The Royal Oak. Elizabeth enjoyed her roast chicken; Jackie, her macaroni cheese, and I, my battered haddock, chips and peas. Elizabeth’s dessert was chocolate and grand marnier torte; Jackie’s, cheesecake; and mine, Eton mess. Elizabeth and I shared a good bottle of Chilean Merlot 2017. Jackie drank Amstell. Service wS FRIENDLY and efficient; food excellent.

The Gods Are Athirst

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Often underestimated is the influence of a translator on the literary quality of a written work of art. It seems to me that the translation of the Englishman, Richard Allinson, must have been significant in producing the version of Anatole France’s ‘The Gods Are Athirst’ in such simple, poetic prose as is presented in The Bodley Head’s first illustrated edition of 1927 which I finished reading today.
The author, winner of the Nobel Prize for literature in 1921, has produced a masterly novel set during the reign of terror in the aftermath of the French Revolution. We have a perfectly crafted tale of love, fear, poverty, mistrust, political intrigue, mismanagement, breakdown of law, and ultimate tragedy with what I think is historical accuracy. Sensitive characterisation, poetic imagery, and a keen sense of the dramatic are evident in this work. I particularly like the skilled descriptions of environment, place, and weather, all of which set the scene and have symbolic significance. Above all, this is any easy book to read. As usual, I will not give details of the story.
Having earlier embraced the flowing line exemplified by Aubrey Beardsley in his book illustrations, by the time he came to produce the illustrations for this volume, John Austen, an excellent and prolific artist, had become influenced by Art Deco, a style, although popular, which I dislike for its geometric angularity. Nevertheless I can but admire

the colour plates

and the black and white vignettes that decorate this publication.

I had trouble presenting these pages directly from the scanner, so Elizabeth photographed them while I held them down then loaded the results into the computer, taking care to crop out my fingertips.
This evening the three of us tried Rokali’s, a comparatively new Indian restaurant in Ashley. It was a good one. The food was very good, as was the friendly, efficient, service. I chose Bengali prawn; Jackie, chicken shaslik; and Elizabeth, chicken tikka bhuna. We shared special and sag rices, a plain paratha, and onion and cauliflower bahjis, and all drank Kingfisher.

Something About Eve

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Although enhanced by the skilled, insightful, sometimes scurrilous, illustrations of Frank C. Papé, ‘Something About Eve – A comedy of Fig Leaves’ is not my favourite work of James Branch Cabell. I finished reading it yesterday evening.

I found it rather heavy going. The crossword setter in me was amused by the anagrams of the lands visited by our main protagonist in his journey from naive youth to mature age. These are Caer Omn (Romance), through Dersam (Dreams) and Lytreia (work it out for yourself) to Mispec Moor, where Compromise snags his search for the promised land. Eve comes in many forms, tempting and not so delightful. Gerald Musgrave tries them all in his sometimes thwarted efforts at copulation.

Finally, the book had not engaged me.

As usual the illustrations in this Bodley Head edition consist of tipped in plates, headers, end pieces, and vignettes among the text.

The golden engravings on the cover and the end-papers some up the essences of the tale.

I have chosen to present the frontispiece as it stands behind the protective tissue that covers each of these plates, the last of which shows our rake as a young man encountering his older self.

Here are one header and an end piece.

This morning Elizabeth drove us over to Mum’s, where we spent much of the day gardening. Jackie pruned needy shrubs, weeded rampant beds, and cleared the lawn edges, which, with a spade, I relined; Elizabeth cut the grass and tidied more edges.

After this, we repaired to The Wallhampton Arms where we partook of their excellent carvery. Jackie drank Amsrell, Elizabeth, Peroni and I, Flacks bitter.