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Posts Tagged ‘seasonal’


This photo of my miniature maple in my front yard shows the coming of autumn

Robert Louis Stevenson: Autumn Fires

In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!

Dear friends,

Sometimes I think the hardest thing about being without Jim is living in the silence. I can’t remember that he and I kept up a perpetual stream of talk, but I did not experience hours turning into days and sometimes a week where the silence is broken only for a while after Izzy comes home and we have dinner together. October used to be my favorite of time of year: it was (so I thought before global warming) more or less guaranteed no more 90F days by October 1st; I still find the colors of autumn lovely.

Jim and I were married October 6th, 1969, a year to the day we met. His birthday was October 3rd, 1948. But now a new anniversary intrudes: he died October 9th, 2013, and that is now the anniversary that most matters.

I haven’t written because I hadn’t the emotional strength to say what I thought I needed to say if I were to keep this public diary truthful enough. I will keep it brief and general. I endured another of these incidents on a listserv where I end up scapegoated, humiliated, and excoriated — it occurred over a period of 3 or 4 days. I’ve learned since the years on Austen-l to say very little and keep away as much as I can during such distressful times, but not to say nothing and just get off. But a little fodder goes a long way with people intent on getting back. I then experienced a roller-coaster of emotion: strong distress over several days such that I found I had to tell my friend that I see locally (whose name I’ve mentioned here): Panorea picked up something was wrong and asked more than once and finally I told her about it. I know that this does not increase anyone’s respect for me but she did have some wise words about recognizing who is your friend (in the 18th century sense).

Then bitter anger; that morphs into sadnesss, and finally the world seems a bleak and empty place.


Elizabeth Mondragon as Butterfly and Amanda Palmeiro as her faithful servant-woman

Panorea did come with me during this time, a Sunday afternoon, to the In-Series theater in Washington, DC to see a modern appropriation of Puccini’s Butterfly. Extraordinarily well-sung, it was a 75 minute mini-opera where everything but the core of the story is cut away: we have left the Japanese impoverished girl in love, giving herself to the white American man, becoming pregnant, his departure and reluctant return to take the baby from her., then her suicide. Em Scow’s review for DC Metro describes the attempt to make the material speak to us in terms that critique the colonialist perspective of the original opera. Every seat in the auditorium was taken; alas, I couldn’t eat the meal we went out for later (because my denture would not stay on properly) and hadn’t the nerve to tell her then. But we both were much taken by the opera, had a good walk and good time.


Kenneth Branagh as the witty melancholy jester-hero


Cherie Lunghi — the lady who is not for burning

One of the way I dealt with this anguished memory of online betrayal (which did begin to fade) — as I do periods of anxiety, stronger depression than usual, worry-panic — was to work very hard on my projects, and so I was otherwise home a lot for the two weeks before the term began. It’s during such times that I become more aware of the silence. When I am imagining good social worlds I belong to I tend to be able to shut out the silence, and almost hear voices from FB friends and friends on other places on the Net. This is illusion, delusion. I do still shake when I remember how I felt those 4 days. I can’t always sleep as memories break in.

I now think to myself that it’s hard to say where we are safer or can make realer friends: cyberspace where no one can rape or harass you physically but the lack of bodies enables people to misrepresent what was said and there is no recourse against reiteration; or physical space where so much more information comes in immediately.

Luckily I found my book projects unexpectedly going well: Graham’s Marni (at least the opening part) is much better than I had remembered (Hitchcock’s ugly movie had obscured the real tone of the book), his Tumbled House is very good and even better the play it alludes to, Christopher Fry’s The Lady’s not for Burning, which I was able to watch in a quietly thoughtful BBC production with Kenneth Branagh (and a young Susannah Harker in a minor role — she is one of the actresses I like to watch) and Margaret Oliphant did not fail me — the novel I’m reading just now, The Doctor’s Family (a Carlingford novella) has a painfully accurate depiction of what it feels like as a widow immediately after your husband’s death, what you have to face.

Pussycats helps — my real perpetual companions, and I began to participate in Caturday on face-book. Marnie took such extraordinarily good photos of Ian and Clarycat while she cared for them I now have a bunch to share. Here is a close-up of Ian Pussycat (aka SnuffyCat as in Mr Snuffleupagus). He is notoriously difficult to take a close-up photo of, much less one intensely manifesting, and/or actively seeking for, affection.

When he comes over to my chair as I sit in front of my PC computer on my desk, he often does that. It’s the sweetest gesture. When I pick him up, he sometimes hugs his body against my chest with his paws around my neck, his beautiful tail swishing over my keyboard.

One result of this self-discipline of reading (I read the whole of Naomi Mitchinson’s The Bull Calves, most of Jenny Calder’s biography of this remarkable woman) and writing, reviewing a number of studies and books, my notes, all at once — the result I say was I finished the paper in record time, inside 3 days. I’ve never produced one so quickly before. I was chuffed because it does seem to me I am at long last getting the hang of what’s wanted in a paper for a conference and how to produce it. It has taken only 20 years (I began going to conferences in 2000). I also needed to complete the paper before the term started as I now no have the long periods of time (hours on end) that writing a good paper takes. It’s called “At this crossroad of my life: books and movies on Culloden and its aftermath” and I will share it with everyone on the Net who might like to read it in due course — early November.

I returned to blogging too (on reading Miss Mackenzie with Trollope&Peers), and then was just a miracle of efficiency and patience in obtaining a driver’s license (which I am well aware will be used part of the gov’ts mass surveillance programs).

This week teaching and going to classes began. I was too intensely cheered by how well both my classes on Phineas Finn went (Monday and Wednesday afternoons) — just splendid, and especially the second, at OLLI at Mason, where there were fewer people than I’d hoped (meaning maybe after all Can You Forgive Her? was just too long) but the people in the room greeted me with such praise, everyone seemed so friendly, as we went round the room telling names, where we were born, and for each of us (including me) what Trollope books have you read, or how did you come across him? it seems for a number of them it was I who introduced them to this remarkable novelist. Both classes of people seem to be very much enjoying the book and seeing its perceptive relevance.

Coping with the undercurrents of memories, though, when I came home, and (as often happens) hadn’t eaten enough, I overdrank too much wine too quickly and then later on collapsed in exhaustion from the effort.

I am worry about one thing I cannot easily do much about: my upper denture has a crack in it and it’s getting worse. I started the 6 week (I hope it’s no longer) process of having a new denture made — it’s a series of fittings and orders for teeth — the day I returned from Calais. I held off because I hoped the denture would last until next April when the insurance I bought would pay for what Kaiser/Medicare does not. But I saw it wouldn’t do. Now I am genuinely concerned lest it break before the new denture comes. It’s not the difficulty in eating but do I have the courage to go out and teach a class with no teeth in the top of my mouth. I have the semi-permanent denture with teeth on the bottom. (These need work she said and she’ll do that after we finish making and fitting a new top removable denture.) Would the class be able to control themselves and not keep looking with appalled horror at the astonishing sight of a seemingly middle class white woman who is toothless on her top jaw. I think I would go rather than cancel the rest of the term. But it will go hard with me. I am taking the thing off for many hours now, trying to be as gentle as I can when taking it off, cleaning it.


The chapters are set up like months of the year; each section begins with a recipe – it is very l’ecriture-femme

I know I can manage being in a class – so much easier, less demanding altogether, just have to exercise self-control — though I admit that when I go out nowadays without that denture I wear a headscarf in a style where I cover my mouth — I have two cut in the “Middle Eastern” (the phrase is a misnomer according to Adhaf Soueif.) I’ve been going out once a day this week: Tuesday a fun class on Laura Esquivel’s Like Water from Chocolate: it’s taught in a community college kind of way, power-point slides, then we go into groups (luckily some of the mostly women read the book carefully, looked things up on the Net and contributed much). What I want to say most about it is it is a book filled with tremendous cruelty (of a mother to a daughter — she beats her violently to prevent the daughter from marrying and having a life or any manifestation of feelings of her own), and for the first time I realized one of the uses of magic realism is to break up the grimness and insane irrationalities these third-world lives for women inflict on them – the dream fantasies make for pleasure, release. I’ve order the movie (I had not realized it was such a best-seller) and will watch it soon.

Today I attended an excellent class at Politics and Prose on Adhaf Soueif’s Map of Love. The two women giving this class produced an immensely thorough presentation (wow), going over history (of Egypt and the brutal colonialist policies of the British followed nowadays by an equally brutal dictatorship by the military and elite Egyptians themselves, really discussing in detail the complicated stories and art of this very Booker Prize type (it recalls Byatt’s Possession) book. What they avoided was how she is pro-Palestinian and anti-Israel (that was a remarkable feat but necessary as perhaps one third of the class were Jewish women who I could see horrifyingly accept what this terror state is doing.) Maybe I’ll be moved to write a blog – I wrote about it in a paper comparing it with Charlotte Smith’s Ethelinde, or The Recluse of the Lake. I’ve read her non-Booker on the Edge of the Sun, her depiction of the Arab Spring in Cairo and even have her book of essays, Mezzaterra (Fragments from the Common Ground).

To round it the week off, tomorrow I got to OLLI at AU for a first class on Graham Greene in the early morning, Saturday in the later afternoon the Folger autumn concert (I enjoyed the utterly non-commercial simplicity of the presentations, to me an oasis, halcyon) by myself, and then Sunday with Izzy, to the local large library booksale and a nearby movie theater with HD screen where we hope to buy tickets for 2 Metropolitan operas to be aired there in February: Porgy and Bess, and Handel’s Aggripina. We have discovered in the ceaseless devouring commercialism of the Internet today, we can no longer buy these Metropolitan opera tickets at this theater unless we join Fandango (an advertising ticket-selling octopus). We hope to be able to refuse this joining by going directly to the theater and buying ahead at the counter.

I began this diary entry with my feeling sometimes that the hardest thing for me to endure is the silence. I believe I go out to these classes as much to hear human voices talking to one another and to me and to give me an opportunity to talk to others about what is meaningful to me and to them. Yes. Years ago I knew that I bought Books-on-tape for my car so I could feel not so alone as I drove — because even with Jim I was lonely and the voice of the brilliant reader was/is such a comfort. Right now Timothy West is making Phineas Finn such a delight. Izzy is for once listening with me again too.

In the evenings too I have returned to Downton Abbey — the first season at any rate.


Anna (Joanne Froggart) realizing that Mr Bates (Brendon Coyle) has brought her a tray of food


Anne watching him walk away (Episode 4 Downton Abbey 1st season)

The movie arrived in my local cinema art theater, and not altogether convinced it would be this alluring long-lasting hit, I hurried to see it later Tuesday afternoon and then wrote yet another blog — moved to: the trick, the involving magic begins one-third to one-half the way through and doesn’t quite succeed. I was reminded of what had drawn me in so emotionally in the first and parts of the second season so I have added the series to my watching addictively late at night beloved series — returning to old friends, the fourth episode of the first series where Mrs Hughes quietly decides against leaving her position as housekeeper where she feels wanted appreciated needed to be the wife of a man she had loved. Much more than that occurs — a favorite scene for me is when Mr Bates returns the kind favor Anna had done him the night he thought he had to leave (and was crying) by bringing him a tray of supper: he brings her one and the look in their eyes at one another brought peace to my soul. I need more than voices to assuage the aching emptiness.

I went to bed with Clarycat with the memory of their feelingful goodness in my spirit and slept the better for watching.


Close-up of ClaryCat at play with Marnie

Edward Thomas — October

The green elm with the one great bough of gold
Lets leaves into the grass slip, one by one, —
The short hill grass, the mushrooms small milk-white,
Harebell and scabious and tormentil,
That blackberry and gorse, in dew and sun,
Bow down to; and the wind travels too light
To shake the fallen birch leaves from the fern;
The gossamers wander at their own will.
At heavier steps than birds’ the squirrels scold.
The rich scene has grown fresh again and new
As Spring and to the touch is not more cool
Than it is warm to the gaze; and now I might
As happy be as earth is beautiful,
Were I some other or with earth could turn
In alternation of violet and rose,
Harebell and snowdrop, at their season due,
And gorse that has no time not to be gay.
But if this be not happiness, — who knows?
Some day I shall think this a happy day,
And this mood by the name of melancholy
Shall no more blackened and obscured be.

Ellen

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Calais Sunset on the beach from high up on a hill —


Me and Izzy on a walk along French coast line — rocks along private/public beach leading to Cliffs opposite the Dover Cliffs

Sitting on a bench on the beach, Laura says, “When I grow very old or can retire, I shall move to Florida, and have summer all year round. Isobel will join me. I reply: “She will never leave her librarian job at the Pentagon until it’s closed (by a Trumo) or she must retire.” Izzy says, “It’s too hot in Florida in summer.” So Laura: “Then we can stay in the house (mine now, I will not be here then, so Izzy’s, to whom I have left my house) In summer and Florida in winter.” Isobel makes no objection. So I sit there imagining them together when I am gone.

Another time Laura says, “I’d like a dog.” I reply, “Only when you give up travel, give yet more of yourself, and are willing to walk him or her every day twice a day.” She replies, “I wish I could walk my cats.” I say, “I’d like a dog once I stop traveling, and if Izzy could accept him or her.” Izzy, “What about the cats.” Me: “Alas, they are not long-lived.”

Laura K: Yep, that’s one of my reasons for not having a dog…

Laura suddenly declaring “we are in the middle of fucking nowhere,” I finding this hilarious.

Dear friends,

I thought I would write my travelogues this time as a daily journal, because this time I came on a kind of voyage of discovery with my daughters. We did not follow a pre-arranged itinerary, where lecturers had been set up, and everything was done for us to provide a specific kind of content or experience. We were doing it ourselves and were not sure what we’d encounter. And part of what I wrote was in response to what others on my timeline (where these entries were posted), said

On the days leading up to the trip, I told people in a brief phrase we had taken a bnb at Calais, and was greeted by a chorus of doubt. What could you possibly do there? Why go there? people just pass through. Here are some of my replies before the trip:


Calais St Pierre Gardens, one of the first places we passed as we walked from the train station with our baggages to our bnb on the beach that first day

It was Laura’s choice. We said let’s go to the beach and then let’s do it in France. So, first she wanted Nice and I pictured tall hideous hotels on a bare beach — which is what I saw when decades ago I stayed at Nice a block away from said beach; so I said Northern France as by train we can get to Paris and maybe London too. So she rented a lovely bnb by the Calais beach. The place does have historicals: the English owned it for centuries, it has prisons, castles, further afield is Proust country. Although this won’t make it sound appealing, it is where The Jungle was located, where refugees congregated in huge numbers until the French gov’t-state apparatus bulldozed it.

Judy S: Oho! It got its first city charter from the husband of the (once and future) nun whose career I was following on my trek in SE England last month.
Me: In fact it is a city or town over-burgeoning with history; a channel port fought over from 14th century (Field of Gold in 16th century nearby) to WW2; a castle, prison, favorite place for mysteries because in history for spies; it’s where the French thought they could marginalize the refugees but found that it grew hugely into The Jungle, which they bulldozed away …. Once and Future Nun — who was this?
Judy S: Marie de Blois/Boulogne is the nun. She was King Stephen’s daughter, also Matilde of Boulogne’s; her last sibling died while she was abbess of Romsey. Matthew of Boulogne/ Alsace/ Flanders, younger brother of Phillip of Alsace/Flanders (Chretien’s patron), swooped in and married her, and they ruled Boulogne for 10 years and had 2 daughters. After a sort of friendly divorce, she went back to the convent, but her older daughter did inherit the title for Boulogne. Other points: for some reason I had always assumed the Field of Gold took place in England; I guess Calais was an interesting venue. I think the refugees were hugging Calais for the same reason, trying to get to England from what looked like a good departure point. Terrible events.
Me: I may be wrong: maybe it took place in England, but I remember going back and forth. Where were Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII first married: I thought they had a religious ceremony in France near the coast …
Judy S: You are right that it was in now-France–or at least Wikipedia agrees with you!


Calais along the canal

Here is my reply when we got back:

A thought: Calais is good for the very reason people seem to pass it by. It is *well-located* and has been for thousands of years; interesting things happened there because it’s well-located and a deep natural harbor, channel port near the Atlantic — half of Dunkirk happened at Calais; the Jungle formed there. Trade routes go through there to Flanders from France. Lace center at one time. The problem was no cabs — the local people are heavily working class, and more or less left liberal in the French way, and middling — it went for Macron and it is now angry at Macron for good reason. And the price of the train tickets. But staying at the beach was perfect. Jim and I stayed in a ducal hunting lodge (for him and mistress and horses) with Izzy one of the summers he was in the NATO group; it was just outside Chichester — cathedral town, with wonderful bookstore, a theater, a festival. Now not far was the Chitterings a beach, and not far London — but you needed to rent a car and drive on the left. There are towns near London and then the shore — the way Austen did it — but you must drive to do it. Buses won’t work. There were lots of buses around Calais: Laura found out the buses (one set round and round the city were for free -every 20 minutes!) and the expensive trains. Phineas Finn goes through Calais twice: to duel with Lord Chiltern and return. Who has not heard of Calais. The field of gold, Henry 8 married Anne Boleyn nearby. What more do you want? It came up first on google when Laura was looking for a very nice bnb on the beach equidistant between London and Paris. It was bombed badly in WW2. But unless you are French, live all along the northern coast or English across the way you would not go regularly. Best of all the beach was beautiful, the sunrises and sunsets, it was unspoilt, a holiday spot for local people, and not commercialized because not advertised as a place to go to; the bnb was so lovely — very comfortable kitchen, fully equipped, large comfortably furnished front room; two separate rooms, three rooms with pictures windows. Filled with light. And inexpensive in comparison to places people are told are alluring.


Walking on beach that first day — we are the other side of the English channel and can see the White Cliffs of Dover in early morning before clouds come

First entry:

I can’t sleep. Probably I am over-excited from the day’s many adventures. Oddly (so I have concluded) when I’ve been up way too many hours I have trouble falling asleep. We (Laura, Izzy, and I) are safely ensconced in a comfortable reasonably well appointed apartment. It has two large windows and glass doors overlooking a truly lovely beach which winds all around the coastline. It became obvious we are in a holiday spot for local people, lots of children, stores brightly lit on an extensive pier offering ice cream, French fries, other delights, at the end of which is a lighthouse. Not far by eye signs of port and harbor — huge ships pass in the distance. I’ve counted 3 lighthouses across this seascape. Our host and hostess (so to speak) kindly and helpful. Tomorrow we must find food for the flat (although the one restaurant we managed yesterday provided me with scrumptious onion soup, very thick with potatoes, cheese, toasty bits if bread and onion that is all I have had for many many hours), bus passes, make small plans on what to do daily beyond the beach and planned trips. We may have to use Uber as there are few cabs. This is a driving community and we are not up to renting a car. The local craft specialty is lace; culturally they are influenced by Flanders still. The young woman (Marni) visiting and caring for my cats has sent photos of Clarycat playing with her and eating, and has glimpsed Ian whisking away (crafty cat). Now for a sleeping pill. Cool winds through terrace.

I am into Phineas Finn. How marvelously does Trollope take you into his book: he overcomes all surrounding circumstance no matter what these are — travel is travail …Also reading book I picked up on The Jungle ( as it was derogatorily called). I watched PBS news and Malcolm Bryant on how these cruise ships are at last being reined in—the towns they exploit are now going to charge them and put up restrictions.

Judy S: That sounds lovely. How long are you staying? This is the second week of the big European vacation, isn’t it?
Me: It’s not a big European vacation ; we are away for ten days or eleven, including travel time. We are staying in Calais and hope onceto take Eurostar to Paris and once to London. We thought another day we’d go to another oval Brittany city or town; someone gave me a list. Today we began to get to know the city, did see a few places tourists and others go to see, and we were at the beach.
Judy S: I meant, the period when Europeans who live in the cities take their own vacations at the beach.
Me: oh I see. I misunderstood. Yes we are away at the time of (to use the phrase Eric Rohmer adopted for one of his movies) “the green ray.” Maybe that is why we are seeing so many people on this beach. The begin to drive up around 11; by 3 no parking spaces in many lots, so they park on the sand or grass. They flit away beginning around 5:30, and by now (well after 7 pm) the evening group is there, ice cream and other shops nearby the beach having opened.
Judy S: I just remembered the term in Italian–Fer’agosto or something like that. I remember enjoying the beach at Rimini, long ago, because you could watch the Italian families enjoying themselves.
Miranda S: Welcome to the world of beach parking! 🙂 Much the same obtains in Spain, before the European schools go back in early September: family parties, including ours (!), set up and stay all day. But my Spanish nieces are amazing competitive swimmers, even ignoring jellyfish (nooo!) as they power across their Mediterranean bay.. Check online what is open in Paris before you go. Shame to get there and find your choice of attractions closed…been there, done that on a day trip! We can travel from our local station to Paris in 3 hours tops, but it is a good idea to check the days of fermeture, before you commit. There are good restaurants round the Gare du Nord, by the way.
Me: probably all is chance on these holidays, at least after securing the plane and place to stay, and a way from plane to place (say a train or a cab) when doing things on your own, there will be misses. That has been my experience.


Harry Potter Fantasy Exit Kings Cross


This sapphire stars is at Victoria Gate, from where our walk began – the artist is Daile Chihuly

Second entry:

So today we took one of our longer day trips—into London by Eurostar. We saw and did a lot, but highlights were the 2 hours in Kew Gardens, a beautiful exhibit of glass art by Chihuly: Reflections on Nature, carefully strewn around a quietly planned rectangular walk from Victoria Gate, eating in a restaurant nearby in business since the 19th century. We walked in Bloomsbury, by the Library; in Kensington and went to the Victoria and Albert museum (should have gone to the Imperial War Museum to see non-French impressionism), were in crowds of people strolling and eating ice cream. For me each return is a return to Jim and aroused memory of many years of companionship and deep contentment. Here he was born, grew up, though it was in the US where he made his way as an adult successful male. Here I married him — at Leeds City Registry office.


Calais — the Notre Dame Garden

Third entry:

Today is partial rest and doing more necessary things. I exchanged a whole lot of dollars for Euros. We bought bus passes, shopped again, saw the local Notre-Dame de Paris. This afternoon the beach. Locally we’ll go through the modern city center (industrial, international, fashion shops, where people work), where are the big working ships we see from far. I have learned (astonishing as this seems) refugees first came to the part of the city where I now am (it has the town hall, parks, churches). Then they were pushed back from the larger coast where the Chunnel is located. A very hard and sad story across many years, still going on, but less so, so rendered invisible. The French British and Dutch authorities were somewhat humane, nothing like the cruel depravity of the US gov’t today. I’m drinking some comforting chamomile tea, eating port salut with French bread. My French (spoken) is coming back, word and simple phrase by word and simple phrase—in execrable Bronx accent. Reading Beauvoir in French to help—a travel book about a time she spent in NYC in the 1940s. At the time she felt it to be a place cut off from the natural world

Anny: Enjoy your deserved trip!
Me: In my old age I am finding the beach magical while I sit on the sand and go in the water.
Diana B: Too funny, French Bronx! My French teacher at Hunter, Madame Hopstein, had a Bronx accent too, so if I still spoke French it would probably be a la Bronx. Glad you are having such a lovely time, though I can see why it wouldn’t be my choice – I already live by the beach, which explains why I crave mountains! Always want something different from what we’ve got…
Me: I miss very much how in NYC on any day, but to do this weekday mornings are best, you can get in your car and in well under 2 hours you are on a beach. Many free. Nothing like that in the DC or Va area: at least 3 hours which means you c…See More Decades ago on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, Jim and I would drive with our dog, Llyr, to a small pretty area of Jones Beach where dogs were allowed. She liked the water. We’d bring coffee in a thermos and 2 croissants. Happy moments. I feel guilty that in later years I didn’t want to go to the beach. It was such a hassle, traffic jams (we had to go when everyone else did), have to rent this often snobbish house. I didn’t enjoy the context, and there was nothing to do but the beach. He would have to sit under an umbrella or his skin would burn and peel. Now I wish I had compromised more. It just wasn’t the free and easy thing of NYC — or southern England. We did go to beaches in England in summer where they were close to where we happened to stay for his job: free and easy. Pebbled beaches, cold water, sweaters. You went all the way to England to go to the beach? Partly, yes. We did other things too. So now we go all the way to Calais to go .
Patricia: I loved Jones beach as a child
Me: It was Orchard Beach we went to as children. We were all in the Bronx, and so was Orchard Beach so there were buses. To get to Jones Beach still you need a car. I believe it was your mother and my father who took us; your father worked as a taxicab driver; my father had no car. My mother preferred to go to work.
Diane R: Sounds like you are finding much to do and much variety. It is true we always want what we don’t have.
Me: Vacations take much effort and self control and patience and courage. You’d think they were just more life.
Patricia H: Oh how wonderful to relax on the beach
Me: Do you remember when we were small going to Orchard Beach where my memory says it took 6 buses? Surely my memory exaggerates, and it was a mere 4. Your mother and mine, maybe fathers too—but I don’t remember your father or my mother there, just your mother but that cannot be, as more than one adult had to carry blankets, towels and plastic picnic containers. I remember my father there, faintly. The sand was so white and hot, the water calm, all under a wide blue sky. All 4 cousins.
Patricia H: “Just remember Jones and Rockaway beach when living in the Bronx. Then I guess wading river beach on long island ( went every day)
Me: We never went to Jones Beach unless someone had a car. Your and my mother could not drive. My mother would never have gone in such a jaunt if she had somewhere else to go to in order to make money working. My father bought his first car when I was 13. Your father’s cab was the company’s and used for his livelihood. Rockaway is available by public transportation from Brooklyn, as is Coney Island. Not the Bronx. Yes once Aunt Helen sold her house to my father, and he basically made it a family house, we all went to the beach on Long Island’s north shore—very pebbly, high cliffs. The nearest town was called Wading River. Early on (before my father bought that house) we somehow were all at that house and experienced two devastating hurricanes that hit the North Shore: Diana and Carol. Do you remember these? Again the only two adults I remember in one frantic flight from one of these two hurricanes was my father driving and your mother sitting in the back of a rented car. Ask Richard what he remembers. The waters came up to the top of the cliff and Freddy Eilmer’s bar. It was terrifying.
Patricia H: Gosh I don’t remember the hurricanes. Yes the bungalow was a summer place for the family. All aunt’s vacations took care of all kids during summer, even aunt Stella. Aunt Stella would buy Danish from that bakery one time your mother watched us
Me: Yes I remember that extraordinary set of boils you developed on your back, and going to a doctor in Riverhead (who had many patients). You may remember my mother being there, because it was so rare. She took you (with me along) to a doctor that day. I went to camp only once and hated it, but I did not come regularly to that house (we did call it “the bungalow”) until after my father bought it. There are (or were) photos of me as a young child in front of a water pump and that can only have happened in the early days of that house. I remember Bill building it (with others) and saying this would kill him. I remember later in time Aunt Stella going to a bakery to bring back morning rolls and cakes on Sundays. Yes I have some memories of comfortable happy times in that community—dances on Saturday night at the end of the block, a place called the Sugar Bowl where teenagers hung out and all bought ice cream. I believe Carol met Billy there, a fateful moment for her entire future.
Patricia H: I do remember the dances at the end of the Street, I loved it. I think building the bungalow did kill Uncle Bill in the end
Me: he died young, early fifties, as you will recall a sudden heart attack. Building that house with his bare hands and tools and knowledge gained so slowly was just another of the stresses he endured. His wife was a hard and could a mean woman (she would refuse to talk to him in their house for weeks). He job as a printer was long hours and hard physical labor; the union helped until technology defeated the printers and the old good jobs began to disappear. He voted against his own interest (the Republican Party has been fiercely anti-worker since the end of the 19th century; nothing has changed there). He might have been happier had he been able to divorce and build another life or (staying) had a son. Carol is now fierce Republican. My mother went back to remunerative work when I was an infant; at age 3 I was left with Helen and she washed my mouth out with soap over something I said, and my father would not leave me with her again. If she was a pitiless woman (as was her mother though not so obtuse). Life paid her back. Among other things, her daughter married who she did to spite her. The scary thing about these Trump worshippers is he has become a God and die of or for hatred for them. Of course they will not put it this way.
Michele Reday C: Sounds like a great trip! Bon Voyage traveling in France!


Paris — the Seine


Paris — morning tour of Marais, ends on cheese and wine tasting


Paris the Musee D’Orsay


Musee D’Orsay hall

Fourth entry:

Today we spent the day in Paris and I can testify to a truly interesting and at moments transformative time. Laura had been determined to join this tour called “Paris by mouth.” The very name embarrassed me. It is misnamed. Perhaps testing food tour with somewhat nationalistic lectures intended to impress ( in front of apparently prestigious maker of remarkable food) would be more accurate—as in fact I got little to eat. (Very like a “Whiskey night” in Scotland which was sillily presented as an opportunity to be drunk when it was the barest tasting with similar long speeches.) The frame was historical: we walked all around Marais, (swamp), an ancient area of Paris, once a slum, now gentrified with these exquisite expensive shops. It was not widened in the 1870’s. Then drinking wine and eating good cheese. Lots of museums, and older buildings. Then in the afternoon I was dazzled by the Berthe Morisot exhibit in the Musee d’Orsay. I bought the first big heavy art catalogue book I have for years: so many pictures I’d never seen before. Reproductions well done. She has her own peculiar technique — and her own outlook and mood. Maybe now justice will be done. I will try to write on her separately.


Berthe Morisot, Field of Wheat

We wandered about the rooms of beauty—impressionist and post-impressionists, which I have not seen or not seen for years; then walked along Seine, saw what’s left of Notre Dame, the Louvre from far. Time was up: no time for a book and DVD store hard to find (as in “you can’t miss it” — “oh yes I can”). We did manage a bookstore in London. It was time hurry down to underground Metro to find our way to train to return to Calais. Laura took many photos. Tomorrow the nearby Cliffs by bus and the museum of lace work, and then we have earned another time at the beach. Not that we are not there right now as I look down from the terrace and listen to the sounds of the water and people in restaurants on pier while typing this. Someone playing the guitar and singing. I have neglected some (to me) funny moments. Laura suddenly declaring “we are in the middle of fucking nowhere.” I found this hilarious. Me telling her travel is liminality, and liminal time is anxiety-producing for me, and her answering: to me travel is getting from one place to another, with Izzy explaining “this is an anthropological concept used in other contexts—no longer uncommon”. Laura then looking this up on Wikipedia on her trusty cell phone.

Diana B: I love you can’t miss it, yes I can. Know it well!
Diane R: I too have experienced “you can’t miss it” as the guarantee you will!


Cap Blanc-Nez — Cliffs along the north coast of France


Escalles from the cliffs as high as we were permitted


Cap Blanc Nez looking down

Fifth entry:

I sent to face-book a panoramic photo of one of the two sets of cliffs on the Brittany shore we visited by bus today. They belong to the Calais area. It’s a scene of great natural beauty, but its interest is it was taken over and used by the Nazis after they conquered France. Huge machines of war, technology, and displays of military might were brought here and broadcast from 1941 on. The Germans tried to help their side from here in the Battle of Britain. Then when the Nazis felt they could not invade Britain, they surveyed the British coast and listened. From here Rommel had himself photographed surrounded by other known Nazis. The Germans fueled deadly planes with bombs from here. They succeeded in preventing the Allies from landing in Brittany (the landing was Normandy). Propaganda to intimidate was sent from here. Not long ago many encampments of refugees spread out along this coast.


The Nazi monument


Flowers Nearby

Today the cows, sheep, people enjoying themselves walking, swimming, bicycling, dressed up to eat out in nearby elegant restaurants were what was visible. We all three spent a long morning using local buses exploring the coast, walking mostly. At one point while waiting for a bus an English gentleman type said to me “how strange to come here for a holiday when there are so many more interesting places to visit.” The choice of Calais as a beach also puzzles all but the people who live here and also come to visit. Laura said I should have asked him why he is here, the puzzle comes because you are supposed to go to Nice.

Diane R: Lovely–it seems to me you are precisely in an interesting place because not everybody goes there. Those places are the true finds–and you are conveniently or semi-conveniently located near two major cities.
Me: I should have said it was Laura who took this and several other magnificent photographs.
Judy S: I was going to ask. That’s the sort of thing I would never bother to learn because when will you need it? But you are right, it is magnificent.
Me: We learn things for the joy of knowing and being able to do things, here remembering how it felt. What need does anyone have of Arthurian legends? What use 18th century poetry? Remember Lear on never ask a person what he or she needs? What use are so many thing I spend my existence on?


Sunset from our Window

Sixth entry:

Around 9:30 pm Calais time on Thursday evening. I am sitting on this terrace which closely overlooks the beach. The beautiful colors of the sky (pink, orange, faint yellow, shades of darkening blue) are finishing and fading. The sea has gone dark blue. I can, though, still hear the surf, and sounds of cars passing, human beings below, all around sbout. It is very cool, and soon (in this light nightgown) I shall have to go on the other side of the glass sliding doors.


Dunkerque beach


Dunkerque Park


Dunkerque Monument on beach ….

Today we made it to Dunkirk by local train and back. It was an 8 mike walk altogether across the city to the Dunkirk park and garden (with sculptures including one of red poppies) to the monument on the beach, and them a converted large bunker now a museum. A video of about 15 minutes made up of clips and films of the events and swarms of people, ships, planes over the for days. Countless died, the French who were rescued were returned to Vichy France and taken prisoner. Some of Churchill’s speeches, to its credit also the one where he said one does not win a war by evacuation. The museum itself made up of arefacts found rotting and otherwise on the beach, photos, and (like the African-American museum recreations using mannequins. Tonight the finest level of food (like a poor fish caught) simply but rightly cooked. I now retire to Amy Goodman news report (if I tell the name I get a picture that functions as an ad) and the Judy Woodruff hour (dittto) via this iPad to hear the latest, and then absorb myself in Trollope’s Phineas Finn.

Brent Donna R: Sounds enchanting!
Me: Laura’s message (and another panorama on her timeline) remind me that alongside a bridge just by the Beach not far from the Memorial too was a young man playing the bagpipes. Why he was doing this we could not know, but it was the right music for the spot.
Brent Donna R: It is all so amazing! Bagpipes have become a symbol of mourning and remembrance.


Calais Lace Museum from outside


Olivier Theyskens fashions — just two pictures from vast exhibit and slowly stunning experience of history and art

Seventh entry:

So today we saw a remarkable exhibit tracing the history, art, and uses of lace and lace-making — it is all women’s art gradually integrated, modernized, capitalized upon, often taken over by men. It was not dull but continually alluring and insightful. Two huge floors, from earliest ingenious tools and ceaseless female labor (I thought of Wolf Hall where Mark Rylance watches Natasha? as Liz, Cromwell’s wife intuitively winds several threads at once) through all stages of industrialization and fashions. Accompanied by just the right examples of complicated technology (amazing machines), beautiful lace objects as part of all sorts of clothing as one moved through the ages. Dressed mannequins embodying each decade. All in soft lighting. This Musee de La dentelle Calais was also showing an exhibit of Olivier Theyskens fashions which seemed some how fitting. I was reminded of the Laurent Versini exhibit two summers ago now. I was enthralled then too, but there is no single catalogue book of the museum—only this exhibit and individual books on individual topics. I loved many thing there, elegant subdued versions of late 19th and some early 20th c fashions, but tonight the colors he achieved in some of the dresses stand out in my,ind: curious rich dark reds and acqua-blues.

I did not know the punch holes of the earliest machine made lace are the true origins of computer tech.

We had taken a bus again round and round, this time allover Calais, and beyond, and had learned of a Musee des beaux arts, by a park garden, which we went to in the later afternoon. There was interesting modern urban art exhibit , a few older masterworks, but nothing as a whole surpassing like the lace museum. (Photos from Laura presently).

And we finally reached the local vast cathedral:— a Notre Dame, much bigger than I thought it would be, begun in tenth century as partly a fort, expanded in 13th century (so very high spaces, arches, windows, columns, the like); beautiful Tudor garden; then again the two world wars hit hard, and it was bombed and all glass windows destroyed; now slowly being replaced by modern stained glass art.I admit the churches in France seem to leave me cold. Too overly ornate, busy with absurd statues and (to me) gilded decorations. It was funny to see a row of such statues lined up against a wall: no where else to put them, they looked so out of place.

That sigh of relief and quiet I sometimes feel in a church (so I wish there were no tour guide or groups of people) I am feeling rather on the beach in these past couple of years. Yes. Something contemplative takes over—some experience of reaching nature’s rhythms and letting go by just going and sitting there. Though part of it the moments in the water staring at the sky. I look out and see the blank wall that encloses us as earth’s atmosphere.

We did the beach too today, Izzy wanted to; then got all the way in and frolicked in the waves—it was windy most of the day. Watching the conscientious lifeguard I suddenly recalled a time when I was young on Rockaway beach where the waves were wild and high. I hear my father’s voice saying to me “watch those guys, they are perpetually pulling people out.” Sure enough. They are not just there as show-off males but watching intently and with those tubes suddenly running in and pulling people out. How old could I have been? Today’s French young man nearly scolding a couple with two small children going out foolishly far.

Another extravagant gourmet dinner and then the serene beautiful sunset over the Channel. I can’t sleep, overexcited from so much in the day.

Patricia H: Oh I would have loved to see the lace being made. Four years ago we toured the Biltmore in North Carolina.They had a mannequin displaying of beautiful simple lined lace wedding gown. Breathtakingly beautiful.
Me: If that is a super-rich family’s mansion in Asheville, I’ve been there. It resembles an English country mansion.
Patricia H: Yes Ellen, we were going on a trip for our 50th anniversary , Richard invited us to stay with them. He lives in South Carolina about 45 minutes away.


Lille Braderie statue – many of these lined the streets — enormous balloon looking sculptures


Lille Art Gallery museum — closed, far shot includes Izzy sitting on square


Lille — a 17th century building

Eighth entry:

Win some, lose some. Laura declared us defeated at Lille today. I am not sure it was an unmitigated disaster. What happened is when we arrived (after a slow non air-conditioned train trip 1 hour and 1/2) was we were confronted with a mass fall festival. We and 3 million other people had come to the already fourth largest city in France, for today & tomorrow all northern France seem to come to Lille for this early September festival cum-art and flea market. Also a fun fair in the Central Park area (so I named it), which effectively cut us off from a famous huge protective wall and fortress we had thought we would see from the outside (no ordinary people allowed in). The rides were as scary as anything in Coney Island. People, people everywhere. Eating, drinking, buying, milling about, all talking French. The famous Louvre-like museum ( if you believe the hype) was for free, but we get in and discover all the art is closed off, and what’s left, a massive used book sale. If there were any quiet nice restaurants, they were obscured by masses of on the spot cafes. Loud bands, and unrecognizable celebrities everywhere. I felt we saw the culture of the area. Jim would have said as he did of local flea markets and “estate” sales of Alexandria, Va, so-and-so is putting her shit out. We did see and Laura photographed still standing 17th century complex buildings (beautiful if we could have gotten closer, a cathedral (gothic, maybe 14th century). My guess is for reasons I now nothing of the Nazis neglected to bomb this place flat. So we got back on the train and returned to Calais.

High winds and strong chills here so Izzy and I stayed in to make ourselves plain pasta and scrambled egg. Yet it felt very hot this afternoon in Lille. I probably now have a bad cold and sore throat.

We are recovering. Tomorrow a beach day (weather permitting). I’ll try to phone my lovely taxi man who made London and Paris possible, to confirm he’ll be here Monday morning at 8:30 am to take us to the local train station or we are “up shit’s creek.” I haven’t learned to use Calais numbers. I never thought I’d say this but outside Paris (and maybe truly large cities) France is in desperate need of Uber.

Me: This morning I could see the whit cliffs of Dover from this terrace. This evening fall has arrived. Suddenly much colder, a deep low tide so human figures seen far out. The water dark blue.
Rictor N: You will laugh at the memory in the future.
Me: Towards the end of most “times away” (how I term what others call holiday, vacation, travel) I often find myself repeating a line from Austen’s Mansfield Park. Fanny Price has been at Portsmouth over a month now, and has realized she now thinks of Mansfield as her home, and repeats a line from one of Cowper’s poem voicing what a boy might feel in one of those boarding or public schools: “ With what intense desire she wants her home”
Diana B: Yup. I have thought of that line on every single trip I ever took, no matter how magnificent! And, what Rictor said.
Me: That’s interesting, Diana, from the way you picture and comment on your trips I would not have expected such a sentiment. No I won’t eventually laugh st what happened today. Remember some truths are omitted (of what occurred). Maybe I’ll be able to cry. It’s hard for me to let myself cry. I’ve hardly cried over Jim’s death when I think about how I’ve felt and all I’ve Endured since. Once a bit older, Fanny cries only when her cruel aunt and stern uncle emotionally assault and berate her.
Diana B: But of course – I have almost always said “with what intense desire,” and to *you*; I know we picked up the saying of it from each other! 🙂 It is true, most of my trips have been the very greatest happiest memories of my life, the things that stand out, and there has been surprisingly little negative, little for me to “hold back,” not to tell on Facebook. Even so, there is always that “intense desire” moment, to be home. To be with Peter and Paul and the cats, my quiet routines. And THAT thought is what reconciles me to the fact that even the most glorious trip has to end. So I say it. It is good to travel; and it is good to go home.
Me: I do hope I have not given the impression this trip has been magnificent. There have been interesting new and good times. And I have yet to get home without going through an ordeal; if I manage that, on the whole it’ll have been worth the time, effort (considerable), patience, self-control and money. Oh courage too.
Diana B: Ellen no, I didn’t get the impression you’d ever said “magnificent.” That’s my feeling about trips because, living in bland California, they mean everything to me. My impression about your trip was that it was curious how many people’s reaction was like mine, “Why Calais?” and you proceeded to show everyone why! Because it IS interesting; because it is France, and Europe, and history; and because staying off the beaten tourist track is often the very wisest thing to do! That you banged into a tourist event by accident just proves that point – but these things do happen, and by no means “ruin” a whole trip: of course not! Have a nice last day or two, a safe trip home, and it will have been a very fine and successful family trip indeed, and one to *your* taste, no one else’s! And that is what matters.
Me: Yes that is what I was doing: showing this is a remarkable and vacation-beach place. I ought to be paid. But I have also been writing to write somewhere. I find face-book is the cyber space I can write easiest in using my iPad. Finally these are diary entries, capturing my actual mood on the day of whatever it was. They will save me the trouble of writing a travel blog for this trip. I will string them altogether with a few pictures from Laura. I could write separately on that museum of lace because Izzy did come away with a free full description (with a few pictures) of the place. That would be interesting for Austen, considering how she probably spent too much time sewing—as women did then. And remember her shoplifting aunt stealing a card of white lace.
Diana B: Yes, the diary aspect and ease are among the things I do like about Facebook. Ideal for running trip descriptions – satisfying to write, and everyone likes to read them, too.
Me: I looked up Lille for the first time on Wikipedia; it is a major city in the region, with a long (2000 BC), varied history (sometimes Flemish, part of Burgundy in medieval times, then again French, took an individual position during the Revolution,alas occupied by Germans during both world wars). Prosperous from its textile industry originally, now fourth largest city in France. Hubbub for modern travel. The Braderie fair which we encountered yesterday dates back to late medieval times; it attracts 2 to 3 million people.
Brent Donna R: Taking trips away is courageous. It is change which most fear. Brava to you Ellen!


Poppies are seen in many places — this is from the two cliffs


The Seagulls

Ninth entry:

Today a relaxing day by and around the beach front, watching mingling with people and birds. Air has too much bite, wind and water without strong heat too cold to get in. Izzy taking photos of nearby aggressive seagulls. I bought from supermarket some yummy onion soup; with that, scrambled eggs and wine and tea I nurse my cold. Izzy and Laura plan an inexpensive meal tonight in one of the beach places; Laura tells me (and I tasted some) French soft ice cream is delicious. We cleaned up, packed, ready to be out of the apartment by 8:30 am tomorrow; if taxi does not show, Laura assures me it’s less than a 20 minute walk, even with bags, and I figure that’s so, so we should make our first train home at 9:06 am.

Now very sunny, light cool winds, near 6 o’clock, we sit on terrace watching: a steady stream of cars coming onto the beaches (ours is just one) for the last hour, more, also buses: groups on young people on bikes; young men on noisy motorbikes; a scene of people enjoying themselves in various ways; lots of family groups, all sizes and types; their dogs; many birds, especially seagulls; one side ice cream, fast food places, two piers, lighthouses, fishermen, beyond that Dover ferries going back and forth across the channel. One the other more apartment houses with terraced condos, playgrounds, restaurants. Lots of voices and sounds. I read Phineas Finn, Isabel watching tennis on iPad, Laura busy with cell phone.

Day and night, night and day, ceaselessly the two ferries go back and forth from Dover to Calais, Calais to Dover. Daytime you see whole huge ship carrying cars, on decks little passengers seen from afar. Tall stacks are engines. High cabins for captain and crew? But at night ship vanishes and instead you see a kind of odd vision: you see moving slowly high rectangular rooms ablaze with neon and other lights, inside the frame up and down lines with more faded lights, as these rooms seemingly tirelessly go back and forth. Sometimes the two are passing in front and behind one another. At first I didn’t realize these rectangles were the ships as visible at night. From our large picture windows …

Miranda S: Britain is an island. We need those ferries for our food and to connect us with the rest of Europe…along with the tunnel, which is admittedly quicker but lacks the sea views.

Lastly, a Calais sighting in my novel: Lord Chiltern challenges Phineas to a duel. Dueling illegal in England by that time and liable to prosecution so they do it on the sands of a Flemish beach. How do they get there? Why all four plus doctor separately head for Dover and then to Calais before proceeding to Bruges and these sands on the other side of (in the middle of fucking) nowhere. And then back through Calais crossing over to Dover… We could see the white cliffs of Dover from our terrace on clear days.

Pictures of our cats while we were away


Clary Cat close up — Marni was very loving to her


Clary comforting Ian


Ian alone, early on he looked harrowed, and here is more himself

Tenth and last entry:

I’ve been home for over 24 hours but am having a hard time re-adjusting (sleep patterns all awry) plus so much to do to catch up and compensate for not being here (like doing my bills) so no time for diary entries or blogging as yet. I want to say after the long ordeal home, especially the tiny space in the plane where I didn’t have enough room to lean down to reach my purse or fold my knees, I am convinced a law should be made that airplane companies are not allowed to have more than half the number of people per plane I was with on this last plane. All Americans should boycott all planes until such a cut in numbers is achieved. As the plane landed safely and became a jam-packed bus, and we escaped that crazed scene …

I did turn to Laura and say of the whole time since first we met at the counter at Dulles 11 days before, “The charm is wound, the deed done” [paraphrases from Shakespeare], we had a good time, no? Yes” she said. As we parted at the cab stand, I said, “you this way, we that.” We all 3 had agreed maybe we’ll do it again in another year and one half. But it was a wrench to turn away.

Diana B: Do it sooner!
Me: It cost a great deal of money. I’m already committed to going with a friend on a Road Scholar in August 2020 to “Enchanted Ireland” (maybe it’s 12 or 14 days?) and twice a year would run me out of money before I die.
Diana B: I see and understand your point entirely!
Me: I would go quicker if I could. Izzy and Laura pick up their share too and they too have to watch expenses. Want to know what we dreamed of this time? a week or so in London or near some Italian lake in the north of Italy at different times of year (not August into September).
Diana B: We have to find the right balance between having enough to live on, and not wasting our last good traveling years *not* traveling. I think a sight of Italian lakes is essential to stock up one’s minds eye with what Byron and Shelley and Mary saw!
Me: Well there are other things I enjoy much more than touring or living in another culture for a while (or returning to Jim’s); the travel itself (the long distance to get to where you tour) is a miserable ordeal. This year I had more happiness is other ways than this past week or so. So I’d say finding the right balance for what you find pleasure in and what you need — for example, in my case, teeth to eat with. No small expense for me. Yesterday it cost me $1095.00 for a new denture as my old one is cracking and for some seal to keep the old one in repair in the meantime. This after the Kaiser discount and paying for Delta Dental supplementary insurance. Laura’s medical bills are very high because ACA has been decimated of funding. She pays for her “office,” with its two computer screens and printer. Izzy’s deepest pleasure is watching ice-skating, tennis and writing. There are books I delight for hours in: I brought home an expensive beautifully made book filled with the art and essays on Berthe Morisot. There’s making sure my house is comfortable and paying people to clean, keep the yard, also keep my car in good order. Moments with friends out somewhere in local space … there’s walking in the woods on snowy evenings, which Frost forgets to tell us cost (as in it costs to breathe ….). Ian was harrowed in the first couple of days; Clarycat is continually half-crying looking about to make sure we don’t vanish. They matter too.


Tree Next to Calais station

Final thought several mornings and long days and nights back home again: it does not matter as much where you go, or what you specifically do at all — as long as what you are doing relaxes and gives you pleasure. The deeper reason for going away is going away. You escape your condition: whatever is the place you live in and all its troubles, and right now the public world of the US is infused with vileness and punitive exclusionary policies, much of them based on money, but others on the spectre of imagined identities. For me I escape the thoughts that bother me daily about who I’ve become, what I have not done in life, if you will my failures, and some of these are hard for me to accept even now. I escape my isolation for hours, maybe it’s for another kind but it is one that is another kind. In this holiday time away I was with two people I care about very much and hope care about me. The result is refreshment, a different perspective partly from the coloring of the area in which we found ourselves, and when you dare a new place, you never know what it is. So it can be a learning experience if you open up to it, don’t insulate yourself though accident, anxiety, and mistake, and all that liminality can bring will have to be endured. It was a good time for us on the whole, new places, renewed thoughts of old (for me, Jim again and my life with him), different books to read. I read the book about the Calais immigrant townships that sprung up and (like Occupy Wall Street) were destroyed, though not so ruthlessly as in the US, Michel’s Agers’ The Jungle, which will be the first book I’ll blog on on JimandEllen when I begin that blog again.

All that said our favorite places and experiences were at the two cliffs and walking along the northern coast of France, the Cite de la dentelle et de la mode (as the Lace Museum Frenchified it), the Kew Gardens experience. All day in Paris came next. Best of all our beach and the scenes from our high windows. From Philip Larkin’s High Windows:

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

It was the kind of holiday time away Jim would have liked; he would have been moved by the Dunkerque beach, museum, bagpipes. I shall now try to re-see Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk, with Mark Rylance saving us all, quietly in his unobtrusive sweater on his and his son’s fishing boat.

Ellen

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The World at Evening — Summer

As this suburban summer wanders toward dark
cats watch from their driveways —

The color of the sky makes brilliant reflection
in the water

There is a time, seconds between the last light
and the dark stretch ahead …

— Rachel Sherwood

A little more than a year ago, I made a summer interlude for my Sylvia I blog; now I’m content with a few words. Then I was gone for 16 days, now it’ll be 10. Then I went with a Road Scholar group to the lake district and borders of Scotland and England in the UK; now we go (me, my two daughters) to Calais, northern France.Why? well I said I wanted to go to the beach, Laura said she wanted to go to France, and Izzy was not going to be left behind.

This sculpture commemorates an eleven month siege on Calais by the British during the hundred years war …

The town or small city has a long history, it’s one of the channel ports between England and France and was owned by England for a very long time. Lots to see beyond the beaches. Castles, prisons, towers, a cathedral, museum. I looked it up on Amazon and bookfinder.com and found many books: on the recent history of immigration to the place and the development of what was known as The Jungle; as a place of war, from 14th century to WW2; where peace treaties and the like were signed; fishing and trading, commerce; a place to set mysteries. Today there are beaches, hotels, shopping, roads to drive, walks to do, markets to buy food and all sorts of goods. There are even ferries.

Laura rented a bnb for us that looks lovely in the picture: it has air-conditioning and wifi. We’ve bought to go to London at least once (see Kensington Garden exhibit), to Paris more than that (we signed up for a food fest). So we’ll use cabs and trains — spend money. The hard question for me is which books to take — to guess which ones will hold you when traveling and away is not easy, but I know Trollope may be relied upon, and so one will be Phineas Finn (as I will teach it this coming fall). I should probably take a good book on or by Austen too. They usually “work.” A small French dictionary — though for a long time it was an English city in France.

Google produces many pictures. Painters like to paint fantasies and semi-realistic images.

I love the art of Eduard Vuillard; many years ago with a visiting friend, I saw a gigantic exhibit (rooms upon rooms tracing his career) of Vuillard’s paintings, murals, drawings at the National Gallery: Dinner with Two Lamps: rue de Calais:

Chez nous, here in Alexandria, Laura’s friend, Marni, will come every day and has promised to stay 45 minutes with the two pussycats, provide food, water &c. Clarycat already made friends with her, and I hope before the end of the time, Ian will come out of hiding and join them in play.


An archetypal harbour scene by Nell Blaine (1986) — Banner Hills, 1986

From Three Poems at the End of Summer by Jane Kenyon

I stood by the side of the road,
It was the only life I had.

Miss Drake

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Surviving plant (coleus, said to be tough) on a day when the deadly heat measures 113F at 12:49 pm

Friends and readers,

Izzy, I and Laura will be away starting Thursday: we are going to Northern France, a beach at Calais, to be specific, and we hope to “stretch” the time to visit Paris once or twice, London once (or twice). The bnb looks lovely: air-conditioned, wifi, each of us with a room of our own.

As we go off, here is Izzy’s latest personal rendition of a song: The Corrs’ Give Me a Reason

Here are the lyrics:

It’s not romantic here in blue
Swimming, swimming in blue
You left me lonely and confused
Question, questioning you
So soon goodbye you stole my heart
Believe, believing you
Was it a lie right from the start
Answer, answer me do
Well now my body’s weak so just give me a reason
And my make-up’s off so just give me a reason
And my defense’s down so just give me a reason
Give me a reason
Give me a reason
You’ll never know the love I felt
Wanting, waiting for you
It takes a weak heart to forget
Follow, follow it through
Well now my body’s weak so just give me a reason
And my make-up’s off so just give me a reason
And my defense’s down so just give me a reason
Give me a reason
Give me a reason
Give me a reason
So what’s a girl like me to do
Drowning, drowning in you
And who’s to save me from the blue
Carry, carry me through
Cause now my body’s weak so just give me a reason
And my make-up’s off so just give me a reason
And my defense’s down so just give me a reason
I am strong enough so just give me a reason
Now my body’s weak so just give me a reason
And my make-up’s off so just give me a reason
My defense’s down so just give me a reason
Give me a reason
Give me a reason
Give me a reason
Give me a reason
Give me a reason
What did I do wrong

They are an Irish musical group

Miss Drake

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A Native American doll I fell in love with and couldn’t bear to leave behind when I visited the Museum of the American Indian yesterday —- for the expression on her face, the posture of her body, her love for a non-human animal. She made me think of the horrifying treatment the US gov’t is now meting out to non-white children seeking asylum at our southern borders. The long history of cruelty and destruction that Native Americans experienced at the hands of the European settler colonialists has resumed today — this past week miners were with impunity killing leaders of indigenous tribes trying to protect their forest …

I’ve put her on the mantelpiece by Jim’s urn and his ashes, the small stuffed toy sheep Laura bought the day she, I, Jim and Izzy visited Stonehenge, the poignent stuffed toy penguin Izzy bought when she and I were in Sussex for a Charlotte Smith conference at Chawton House Library

Nona: You talk about him a lot.
Me: Do I? I didn’t realize.

Friends,


Jamie (Sam Heughan) as longing revenant seen in the dark from the back by Frank Randall in the streets of Inverness below his and Claire’s window (Outlander, Season 1, Episode 1)

To me one of the riveting little discussed aspects of historical fiction is its connection to ghost stories and the gothic. It is haunted terrain: the characters reached in the previous time are ghosts brought alive, somehow hallucinatory in our dreams and on that luminous film/movie/video screen. There is an idea of getting back to the past is to beat death — in Outlander Claire in the 20th century makes it plain she realizes she longs to join a world of now dead people, all gone to dust and ashes, ghosts; and the feeling in such passages. It’s a ghost of the gothic worked up through time-traveling historical fiction. Hilary Mantel plays with this too — knowingly (one of her contemporary novels is about a cynical seance holder who half-believes in what she does – the heroine is her, making a good deal of money out of this game. I find this insight in Daphne DuMaurier who goes back and forth through time too; it’s occasionally found in a Winston Graham tale. What’s necessary is that a now living person meets the character from the previous historical time as a revenant.

A poem by Algernon Swinburne captures the way Claire feels about Jamie. And when Frank dies in 1968, he becomes part of the revenants who come to life through Brianna and Claire’s memories, and Claire’s dreams — and the stones. Claire keeps choosing Jamie in all the ghostly-reverie prologues of the books, and all my life I kept choosing Jim …

A Forsaken Garden
(Click on the link to see the poem with proper indentations)

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-down’s edge between windward and lee,
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The steep square slope of the blossomless bed
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses
Now lie dead.

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,
To the low last edge of the long lone land.
If a step should sound or a word be spoken,
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest’s hand?
So long have the grey bare walks lain guestless,
Through branches and briars if a man make way,
He shall find no life but the sea-wind’s, restless
Night and day.

The dense hard passage is blind and stifled
That crawls by a track none turn to climb
To the strait waste place that the years have rifled
Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time.
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken;
The rocks are left when he wastes the plain.
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,
These remain.

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not;
As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry;
From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not,
Could she call, there were never a rose to reply.
Over the meadows that blossom and wither
Rings but the note of a sea-bird’s song;
Only the sun and the rain come hither
All year long.

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels
One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath.
Only the wind here hovers and revels
In a round where life seems barren as death.
Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,
Haply, of lovers none ever will know,
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping
Years ago.

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, “Look thither,”
Did he whisper? “look forth from the flowers to the sea;
For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither,
And men that love lightly may die—but we?”
And the same wind sang and the same waves whitened,
And or ever the garden’s last petals were shed,
In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened,
Love was dead.

Or they loved their life through, and then went whither?
And were one to the end—but what end who knows?
Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither,
As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose.
Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them?
What love was ever as deep as a grave?
They are loveless now as the grass above them
Or the wave.

All are at one now, roses and lovers,
Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea.
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers
In the air now soft with a summer to be.
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep,
When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter
We shall sleep.

Here death may deal not again for ever;
Here change may come not till all change end.
From the graves they have made they shall rise up never,
Who have left nought living to ravage and rend.
Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing,
While the sun and the rain live, these shall be;
Till a last wind’s breath upon all these blowing
Roll the sea.

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,
Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead.

One reason I’ve chosen Margaret Oliphant as the center of my chapter on widowed women writers in our coming book “Not an anomaly” is that she feels her widowhood in the way I feel mine haunted, thus I can enter into her case and come up with a thesis, one I hope to generalize from to include other widowed women writers: Penelope Fitzgerald, Christine de Pizan, to name two. Also I love the tone of Oliphant’s fictions and now (after two weeks of on and off immersion) her letters. She is transformed by the death but it takes a long time ….

*********************************


Lady Mary Lowther — a watercolor 19th century drawing of the Lake District I found on-line and was my summer picture on face-book for a while

A lot and almost nothing at all truly new has happened since last I wrote. I’ve read a lot, written, watched movies, some new, some seen many times, since returning to my book project on “Not an anomaly” I’ve produced a detailed chronology of the life and works of Margaret Oliphant and soon will be ready to pick a few novels (I hope) relevant to the topic of her as a widowed woman writer. I’ve produced an outline for a book on Winston Graham, am into two more Cornish novels (Rumer Godden’s China Court is one), and today began his Greek Fire (it’s set during the later 1950s in Greece when the US gov’t was interfering to prevent a socialist democracy from emerging). I’m almost finished with teaching The Enlightenment at Risk! at the OLLI at Mason and it went over better than at AU if the number of people continuing with the course and seeming deeply engaged in the topic and reading in class is any criteria.

Those of us who read Anne Boyd Rioux’s Meg Jo Beth Amy on Trollope&Peers had a good time with it, telling one another our experiences reading children’s books, and I’ve now decided that the 2017 Little Women, starring Emily Watson as Marmee and Maya Hawke as Jo is far more livingly alive, more real depth, more flexible, with all the characters given serious humanity, continuing believable evolving experience than the pretty picturesqueness of the 1995 Little Women: although Gabriel Byrne is still irresistible as Prof Bhaer, it now seems stilted, too much dialogue from the book, too exemplary in the doing of it. See Rioux’s eloquent book about 4 wonderful 19th century American women novelists. And we’ve started a strange book (to me) on WomenWriters: Zadie Smith’s White Teeth: the paradigms of the characters are so unstable and quick rootless changes with a joking kind of tone at first startled but it is growing on me, she is captivating me slowly.

Little Women — Jo March: Maya Hawke’s performance has been insufficiently attended to because, forsooth she is not a celebrity star

I took a one week course at OLLI at AU reading as a group Graham Greene’s The Quiet American, and watching the two movies (1958, a reactionary travesty by Mankiewicz, and a meditative faithful protest film by Philip Noyce, with Michael Caine playing the part of Fowler brilliantly). It was curiously stirring for me to sit in front of Elaine Showalter as teacher: she is very good in a classroom, friendly, warm, intelligent. prompts the class into conversation. A one day 2 hour session on archaeology in Fairfax county (at Colchester) at OLLI at Mason, Reston, was fascinating: how one learns about Native Americans, enslaved African people and European settler colonialists in the 17th through 18th century.


This is from a Gloucester dig — at the session was a couple I know to be pro-Trump: in the atmosphere at OLLI about this vicious administration, they look about with expressions grim as death, well they support death — the great irony of archaeology is our knowledge comes from garbage and death ceremonies ….

Some strong enjoyment in the three weeks was a 5 hour visit yesterday to the Museum of the American Indian with a new friend from OLLI at AU, Nona: a beautiful building, a cafeteria serving delicious food, and intelligently set-up exhibits and art comparable to what I saw in the African-American museum; these people have been treated just as horrifically, abominably. The exhibits about Native American culture and life were not as commercialized as the contemporary African-American counterparts: in both there was much new and unexpected for me to learn. The story of Pocohontas is of a young woman of elite status who took to visiting some European settlers, disappeared for nearly two years (gang-raped? hidden by her father?) to emerge the wife of John Rolfe, who took her to England where she died quickly at age 22 (perhaps in child-birth). Why she was singled out to be the core of naive myth I couldn’t see. The Indian Removal Act is thoroughly put before us – and the dire consequences, the destruction of a whole people. What a vicious man was Andrew Jackson. I have to admit the museum practiced “balance,” with justifications here and there (see how much prosperity was gotten, see how much needed space … ) — you are spared these in the African-American place.


This photo from the outside gives some sense of the beautiful gardens and fountains all around the building

Also a very hot Saturday night with Panorea we saw a virtuoso performance of Swan Lake (American Ballet Theater) at Wolf Trap: picnic with wine before — I was not as moved as I was once long ago by a ballerina who had extraordinary expressive power. Another interesting (if troubling movie) at the film club: Peanut Butter Falcon, a Huckleberry Finn fable (complete with raft), substituting a story meant to be compassionate about a Downs Syndrome young man for the racist matter of Mark Twain, was nonetheless proposing that it’s easy to provide education into independent adulthood for the disabled, with violence as a solution to his difficulties, dissing the institutions and trained female personnel who do care and whose real problem is they are underfunded. See my blog on Chernobyl: enough said.


We hope on WomenWriters@groups.io to read together (in English translation) the first volume of Beauvoir’s memoir

Looking forward to the future, I taught myself how to get to the Politics and Prose Bookstore in Northwest Washington and took a two session course in Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South. I know the book and film adaptation well; the point was to see how courses are there, and this one was very good, many people from the OLLI at AU, a serious teacher, so now for August (usually a dearth) I have a three session course in existential humanism (three Friday early evenings) and I’m half way through Simone de Beauvoir’s exhilarating The Ethics of Ambiguity (it is!), with Simone Weil’s The Need for Roots, and Sartre’s Existentialism is Humanism coming up.

The book makes me feel like I’ve been in a backwater not seeing what I do in this larger (to me) refreshing context. The book has relevance to what I’ll read in September, but it also has relevance to a debate a friend and I had off-list about evil in the world and in human beings.

Just a little on Beauvoir’s book (beautifully translated by Bernard Frechtman): it is an existential argument, where she begins with a position that we begin in pessimism as we look about us (this comes later in time in the book and our lives — after childhood), but we are part of the world and the way we interact is a necessary assertion, it is a form of disclosure of the self against which we discover that others push back. Many people take one of two choices she’ll avoid: to deny death by asserting immortality and to deny life, seeing it as an illusion where we are dying all the time (that was unexpected — I thought she’d say taking the Camus view of life as meaningless where we individuals make a meaning). I cut to where she argues that there is bad willing, not that the person is deluded or mistaken, but they are acting harmfully deliberately; and one problem is the coping with evil wills which often gain power because others submit to them. Or people with bad wills given power over others who have a hard time escaping them.

The idea that exhilarated and cheered me is that we are free to chose what we want to do (within the limits of our thrownness of course) and how we go about persevering in the face of much resistance from other aspects of life and what we found to be true about our project itself.

She also talks of how in childhood the child is made to feel he or she is not free and thus irresponsible and can live in fantasy. From this she moves on to women and she talks about the situation of women in cultures where they truly have such limited choices, they are objects or enslaved creatures (even there they have a llmited –I’d say pathetic inward — freedom); in the west they are given windows of opportunity and I found it interesting and revealing (explanatory) when she says women who seem so happy at complicity with men’s desires, needs, orders, will suddenly show themselves hard, mean, cruel or furious when something they individually are keen about is brought into the picture (they drop the appearance of charm, urbanity, grace).

The store is a community center, filled with people buying, looking, a cafe and bar, very pleasant. Jim and I had gone there just for lectures and to the pizza place next door (where one of these fanatically deluded bigots came with a loaded rifle because he thought Hilary Clinton was running a child prostitution racket — he has not turned up to Trump’s concentration camps where he is imprisoning children in cement cells with junk food in appalling conditions so they sicken).

The course I mean to teach starting early September 2019 in both OLLIs — on Trollope’s Phineas Finn — is officially scheduled, and the one for spring 2020, on the novels of E.M. Forster just accepted at OLLI at Mason. Here is the blurb on that one:

The novels of E.M. Forster

In this course we will read Forster’s best-known fiction, A Room with a View, Howards End, and A Passage to India. We’ll discuss what makes them such distinctive literary masterpieces capable of delivering such pleasure while delineating the realities, tragedies, comedy, and consolations of human life. We’ll place them in the context of his life, other writing, Bloomsbury connections and era. We’ll also see clips from some of the brilliant films made from them. I ask that before class begins everyone read his short and delightful Aspects of the Novel. We’ll also look at his travel writing & biographies. This rich early 20th century writing & the films will speak home to us today.

The response from both curriculum committees is delight at the choice. These are “sacred texts” one man said, how he loved Howards End in college.

**************************************


Politics and Prose from the inside ….

Not all was peace and life’s consolations on the surface at least for me.

On the way home from Politics & Prose the first time I realized I was being followed by a cop; at first I couldn’t believe this, but at last he began to flash blue lights, then his loud speaker, then gestured and finally I realized he wanted me to pull over. It seems my registration at the DMV expired in February. Who knew? I never got any mailing from them on this. So now I have to pay a fine, phone the DMV and then go through some rigmarole. The cop was not the nervous wreck cop who appeared to regard me as eager to shoot him because I did not respond in conventional ways. (When I got out of the car to talk he went hysterical: ). https://misssylviadrake.livejournal.com/158920.html

No this young man was amused. He asked me, had I realized he wanted me to pull over. I said, No, why should I? I was doing nothing wrong. I take it that this time he was able to research me while he was trailing me home — so had concluded I was this clueless old white (thus harmless) lady. I discovered my registration expired in February. I shall have to call tomorrow probably to pay a hefty fine and call the DMV to ask what to do: I hope very hard this is a routine if expensive and possibly time-consuming matter for me. I do believe I never got a letter from the DMV about this — the way other organizations try to coerce me into doing this kind of stuff online or letting them have access to my bank account.

The officer was all reassurance but smiled with a half-angry look: At home Izzy suggested this was an abusive stop. The guy had had to do research to discover my registration was expired. And though he asked to see my registration, he did not take it away. What about me or my car attracted this leech? I remembered my motto from RLStevenson: failure is the fate allotted; our business is to go through this in good spirits. But a line on the site telling me that I was now driving illegally kept me up all night; I was at the DMV (seven minutes away) in the intense heat ten minutes before the doors opened on an already long line.

When I got inside, what a scene: understaffed, the computers kept going down, people giving up and leaving. I somehow managed to get someone’s attention to ask if the computers could renew a registration over 90 due. I was thinking I would go to another DMV, but the woman suddenly looked at me and said, ah, let’s try that, and took me to a counter where a very genial woman took the summons and all the documents I brought, and made light of the problem. She said (opposed to others) I needed no new plates or photos, and if she could get her computer to respond, I’d be renewed in two minutes and while the thing went bit slowly, it did it. Home by 10. I couldn’t find out what the fine is because the cop did not register it as yet, and was told to phone back in two weeks. I did ask, why did I not get a renewal form? I do pay attention to this kind of stuff. No answer. Now I’ve marked a calendar and next year in January I’ll remember.

The DMV may be trying to save money by not sending out paper notices and don’t mind if they lure people into not paying on time so as to bully us and collect more fines.


An appealing image of retreat — idyllic

I don’t talk much about my neighborhood but it is filled with snobs who will pay a million for a house but not a dime that does not add to their accumulation. There are increasing numbers of McMansions put up: these “homes” are an obscenity the people should be ashamed of. And when someone asks me what do I think of that house having been flattened and the “beautiful” place made in its stead, I do say I think it obscene.  They fall silent — probably offended.

What’s happened is a group of cypress trees (I’m told) planted by a spiteful neighbor years ago (she wanted to shut me out, and blocked the light going into my living room) just on one side of my property have grown high, strong and over the line to the point they are bending my fence. I asked the new owner (there six months) if she would cut them back and she behaved on the edge of rudeness, resentful. She has lived next door to me for 3 months and said as how these are very old trees They are still her’s. This new woman has done nothing after I spoke with her. She responded with offhand “oh I’ll bring out my lopper” looking at me with hard indifference. Her son-in-law (lives around her) came over and said how cutting would make them ugly. They are hideous now – lots of ivy, very messy. I thought of a lawyer but lawyers cost a lot. I asked someone who lived there before the couple (the trees were small then) for advice and she said I have the right to cut down anything on my property. So I’ll hire my mowing man to cut them back, and especially the branches choking the fence. This woman paid $904,000 for her house.

You probably don’t want to hear about some malicious exclusionary behavior on the part of an Aspergers club I know about to one man who was part of their group for years: suffice to say it was over this man’s thoroughly leftist politics, his ideas for protecting disabled people if the present federal gov’t starts to go after them more than they’ve already done. The ostracized person is in his 50s, lonely, odd looking, makes little money in a part-time job in a library (autistic people are often un- or underemployed). I felt for him and wrote a couple of emails on his behalf but it’s no use.

I could many times tell of such like incidents but they are so demoralizing. Izzy and I are excluded from the coming JASNA: the cherry-picking of who goes and who doesn’t was astonishingly transparent this time. Inequality as a visible shameless continued way of life creeps on. I didn’t even know about a Gaskell conference (wasn’t told nor have been contacted by that Gaskell friend I thought I made last summer – well I didn’t make the cut, probably didn’t boast or buy into her establishment talk enough) or the recent Burney one, somehow not told by them either. Well I don’t have the money and such experiences are ordeals in so many ways too.

A few pure diary entries from face-book:

7/20: I predict today in the N.Va area the heat index will reach 120F. It’s impossible to dress appropriately … Two hours later, around noon, the literal temperature is 99F, but the heat index 119F and still climbing. In my memory of this area or any where else I’ve never experienced such oppressive all-encompassing intense heat, acccompanied by a burning hot sun on my skin. Hardly any people in cars going anywhere, supermarkets relatively empty. I know last week the hour and more sudden astonishing rainfall we had (sheets of water coming down with no stopping for the time it went on) was outside the norm. This strikes me as going outside the norm too.

7/21: It is now 104F literally and the heat index is 125F! But that is not my thought for today (just part of context). My thought is how glad I am to have so many kindly FB friends …

7/23: The weather is cooler today: last night heavy but not unusual rains, this morning heavy dark clouds prevented the sun from heating the area up, and the clouds stayed so I was able to go for a walk. First afternoon half-hour walk in days, I felt a light coolish wind even. Last night I watched the whole of the 1995 Little Women and 1/3 of the 2017: I prefer the 2017, then the second episode of the second season of Outlander; then DuMaurier’s Jamaica Inn; this afternoon I spent with Samuel Johnson (this has cheered me considerably and enabled me to write this diary entry) and now I turn back to Margaret (Oliphant) — with a gratified sigh that I am able to do this.

7/25: Our heat “broke” as we say two days ago, heavy rains that day and our more usual rain yesterday — and today? it is 64F this morning (a high promised of 80F). So livable. I have opened my windows around my house. Yesterday I taught (and the session went very well) and after lunch with a friend and then with her (in a crowded auditorium) re-saw Hampstead — saw flaws this time but as my friend with me said “it’s like a glass of wine” in the desert of a now overtly cruel society this movie tries to treat lightly, came home drained …


A lovely drawing of herself from the back as artist by Constance Fennimore Woolson — she will be the center of my third chapter on spinsters, lesbian and otherwise …

Ellen

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A flowering bush in my front garden

“Sitting alone in a room reading a book, with no one to interrupt me. That is all I ever consciously wanted out of life.” — Anne Tyler’s novel, Celestial Navigations

Friends,

The quotation that begins this blog comes from a long wonderful thread we had on Trollope&Peers in which members told one another about ourselves: it was headed: “Introductions,” but since we all knew one another in some ways, what we were really doing was telling of the significant choices and moments and the roles we played in the social world in our pasts (where you a librarian? a musician? a computer software specialist? and many other jobs), and to some extent why, and how, and where, and also why we post to one another, read and watch movies together, why we read one another’s posts (and blogs too). It was a deeply inspiriting conversation to begin a new season together. This list or our group has been going in one form or other since 1995 or 1997 depending on whether you want to count the beginning on a usenet site (majordomo software) as simply “Trollope” or our breakaway to a site run by Mike Powe with the more coherent explicit name Trollope and His Contemporaries (Trollope-l). So 24 or 22 years; with a few of our original 11-12 having died, and many changes in people, and at least 5 different places in cyberspace. Someone summed up what I said of my “career goal” with the Anne Tyler utterance.


Bookermania

It’s odd to imply (by my header) that summer has just started, for I’ve had my Cornwall early summer holiday, and now the first course I was scheduled to teach (at OLLI at AU, The Mann Booker Prize: Short and Short-listed) is over. I think the class went splendidly for all of us there — we began with 40 and about 35 stayed the course, everyone seemed to be deeply engaged by the books and enjoyed the movies, especially J L. Carr’s A Month in the Country and Pat O’Connor and Simon Gray’s film. We had new insights into Penelope Fitzgerald’s The Bookshop, and people loved that film too (I showed clips). The applause and praise were music to my soul, and (not to be too ethereal) I had again cleared over $300 in the honorarium envelope I was given in the last session as a parting gift.

A course I was taking came to an end too: Hitchcock films, four of them: the teacher is gifted in his ability to analyze the films (he had studied these for years) and prompt many people in a class to talk. He assigned four (Strangers on a Train, Rear Window, North by Northwest, and Psycho). He demonstrated that as film art, they are fascinating experiences, lending themselves to Freudian psychoanalysis, and very intricate aesthetically, but (I think) did not prove his case that they are meant to expose and critique fundamental patriarchal and cruel paradigms that shape human lives through customs and laws. Yes Hitchcock has a gift for intuiting what is unnerving, uncanny, and presenting the amorality and appetites of people, but he is also misogynistic, homophobic, enjoys marshaling stories and images that prey on, do hostile mischief against the peace of his audience.

I watched six Hitchcock movies this time altogether. I added two to those the teacher discussed (voluntarily — as extras) The Lady Vanishes, Vertigo; and two I fell asleep on: 39 Steps and The Trouble with Harry, i.e., what shall we do with this corpse of a man who had a stroke after his silly wife hit him over the head with a milk bottle. You have to admit this was a mighty amount of film watching — I did it all after 11 at night. I have also seen and remember Marnie (very well, I’ve read a book in it) and The Birds (the latter of which is especially cruel — perhaps to the birds traumatized to behave that way too); vaguely I remember Rebecca; of the TV program Alcoa Presents many years ago I remember being frightened and Hitchcock getting a kick out of frigthenting people with uncanny stories that could arouse their atavism. So I did give Hitchcock a fair shake.

Of all ten I now remember the only one I enjoyed was The Lady Vanishes. I could say why I didn’t like each of them, but it’s a thankless task. Let me just write of Psycho and The Lady Vanishes.

I felt in the case of Psycho that Catherine MacKinnon’s argument that violent pornography aimed at hurting women violates real women’s rights to life, liberty and safety and should be controlled is well taken. It’s a mean cruel picture where a reductive Freudian explanation for people’s sexual and emotional misery is used to make a story that exemplifies that paradigm; after the homosexual man dressed as his hag-mother murders the fleeing woman in her shower, a psychiatrist is produced who explains what we have seen by the myth that was used to put the story together.


May Whittie, Margaret Lockwood (The Lady Vanishes)

As for The Lady Vanishes, the film centers on an older woman (played by Dame May Whitty) who vanishes and turns out to be a working spy for the UK gov’t; she is rescued from murder by the heroine (Margaret Lockwood) who will not believe the woman never existed, and her witty romantic male companion (Michael Redgrave). There is light good-natured (!) comedy; an unusual (for the time) use of camera tricks of all sorts, some beautiful filming of sets and scenes. As in other movies of this era, central is the danger and excitement and “awesomeness” of a train all the characters are on.

This film is not misogynistic at all — it has several brave women who are treated with dignity and respect. A sort of jokey-ness surrounds sex and the men are not predators. Nor are they little boys gone wrong, or wronged, or super-vulnerable or intent on controlling the identity and body of the heroine. The heroine was going to marry for money and rank but is very reluctant and in the end marries the hero because she likes him as a companion and he her.


1972 cast — that’s Diana Quick in the key role of Marion Halcombe


2018 — Jessie Buckley and Dougray Scott as Marion and Laura

Very good hours went into reading (with friends on Trollope&Peers @ groups.io Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White, which I now think an underrated masterpiece, and watching both the 1972 and 2018 BBC five part serial dramas. I will be blogging on this on EllenandJim have a blog, two. We are about to begin Anne Boyd Rioux’s Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy, a bit early for yet another Little Women movie, we have been told is coming out next Christmas: directed by Gerta Gerwig, with Saonise Ronan as Jo, Meryl Streep as Aunt March (this is what age does to us). I’m just ending Rioux’s brilliant Writing for Immortality (again full blog to follow separately on Austen Reveries, two). Soon to try on Womenwriters@groups.io Zadie Smith’s White Teeth and then Simone de Beauvoir’s Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter: topics are Afro-women writers, and mother-daughter paradigms as central to women’s lives and art.

And the second phase of summer teaching and courses began: I started my second course (at OLLI at Mason, The Enlightenment: At Risk?) and the class is much much more enthusiastic, we had a rousing time this past Wednesday. Even I am surprised. And the Cinema Art Theater film club began with the wonderfully enjoyable Hampstead (blog to follow) while the Folger Theater ended its marvelous year with an HD screening of Ghost Light, a poignant comic appropriation of Macbeth.

NB: I took the Metro to get there as 7 pm is an awkward time for me. Many shuttle buses are there for the ride back and forth from National Airport or Crystal City to King Street, but the ride is in traffic and takes longer. I got home after midnight. I had enjoyed myself, even had a friend to talk to coming back — another widow like myself. But the next day I was so tired I found myself ever so slightly nodding off as I drove. Can’t have that so this may be the last time I venture forth at night where I need to take the Metro until it’s fixed. So I am back to bouts of Outlander, books and serial drama at midnight …

I am happy to say my Anomaly project with my friend is back on track and I’ve begun to immerse myself in my first subject: Margaret Oliphant, a life-long self- and family-supporting widow as writer. I love her Autobiography and Letters as edited by her niece Annie Walker (1899 edition). Am not giving up on my Poldark studies. I listen to David Rintoul reading aloud Scott’s Waverley with such genius that he almost makes the book wholly delightful (as well as a serious presentation of cultural politics in Scotland around the time of Culloden). I came up with a proposal for the coming EC/ASECS in October: At the Crossroad of my Life; although Izzy and I will probably be excluded from the coming Williamsbury JASNA, for her sake, for the next one in Cleveland I am going to write one out of the blog I made on Austen’s History of England: “Tudor and Stuart Queens of Jane Austen ….”, as in

It is however but Justice, and my Duty to declare that this amiable Woman [Anne Bullen] was entirely innocent of the Crimes with which she was accused, of which her Beauty, her Elegance, and her Sprightliness were sufficient proofs, not to mention her solemn protestations of Innocence, the weakness of the Charges against her, and the King’s Character; all of which add some confirmation, tho’ perhaps slight ones when in comparison with those before alledged in her favour … His Majesty’s 5th Wife was the Duke of Norfolk’s Neice who, tho’ universally acquitted of the crimes for which she was beheaded, has been by many people supposed to have led an abandoned Life before her Marriage — Of this however I have many doubts … The King’s last wife contrived to survive him, but with difficulty effected it (her History of England)

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On my family and physical companionship life, I shall say the obvious, which needs more to be said than people admit (but I often do and can feel others responding with a “well, duh ….”)


He is a beautiful cat — with yellow eyes. He tried to get Clarycat to play. And she hissed growled and spat at him: “I’m not in the mood just now.” So now he’s vanished, gone to hide because a contractor came … who said the life of a cat is easy …

That cats need companionship is not said often enough though. The other morning Ian was following Izzy about as she got ready for work. It was quietly done and not intrusive but persistent. He does often sit at her door when it’s closed and cry, whimper, whine, protest, scratch, until the door is open enough so he can go in and out when he wants. He is the kind of cat who loves to hide, especially high up places (like my kitchen cabinets) showing immense strength when he jumps up to them. He comes down by stages: loud thump and he is on the washing machine; another flatter thump is him hitting the floor. I worry for the machine and his underpaws. Yet when not hiding he is often with me or her and sometimes overly seeks play (brings a toy over) or sits in my lap and in effect makes love to me — murmuring, head rubbed against mine, body against my chest, his upper paws around my neck ….

Cats need companionship with people, their significant person and should not be left alone (with someone coming in to put down water and food) for any real length of time. They need another cat who they have bonded with, but both need their person too.

I also mean they grow ill without this — exhibit signs of self-harm to ward off anxiety and stress. One can read about this in better books about cats–and also occasionally see in an unfortunate cat.

Today Ian murmuring a lot at me. His way of saying I’m here and pay attention or talk to, somehow be with me.

The Cats of Outlander: Did you know the fifth season of Outlander will include cats: yes in Gabaldon’s The Fiery Cross Jamie gifts Claire with a gray kitten, Adso, and the advertisement promotion photographs include the three kittens — to film a cat in a show, one needs three so as not to overwork any one cat.


The cats of Outlander — that’s Caitriona Balfe and Anita Anderson

Izzy spent two days at her first American Librarians Association conference (here in DC) last week, and now five days in New York City: among other things, she took the boat ride around Manhattan, spent a whole day at the Whitney and another at the Metropolitan Museum and Central Park. She saw a musical, a play, spent time at the Strand. We kept in touch by email.

I had a beautiful conversation with my scholarly Johnsonian friend, Tony tonight — three hours — and talk sometimes with Panorea.

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Some funny New Yorker cartoons: Victorian heroines with adequate birth control by Glynnis Fawkes:

Classical heroine who did not need birth control measures:

So I have recovered from the first of my two summer trips. Never say keeping sadness at bay is not hard work.

by Eugenio Montale, as translated from the Italian by Jonathan Galassi

The Lemons

Listen to me, the poets laureate
walk only among the plants
with rare names: boxwood, privet, and acanthus.
But I like roads that lead to grassy
ditches where boys
scoop up a few starved
eels out of half-dry puddles:
paths that run along the banks
come down among the tufted canes
and end in orchards, among the lemon trees.

Better if the hubbub of the birds
dies out, swallowed by the blue:
we can hear more of the whispering
of friendly branches in not-quite-quiet air,
and the sensations of this smell
that can’t divorce itself from earth
and rains a restless sweetness on the heart.
Here, by some miracle, the war
of troubled passions calls a truce;
here we poor, too, receive our share of riches,
which is the fragrance of the lemons.

See, in these silences where things
give over and seem on the verge of betraying
their final secret,
sometimes we feel we’re about
to uncover an error in Nature,
the still point of the world, the link that won’t hold,
the thread to untangle that will finally lead
to the heart of a truth.

The eye scans its surroundings,
the mind inquires aligns divides
in the perfume it gets diffused
at the day’s most languid
It’s in these silences you see
in every fleeting human
shadow some disturbed Divinity.

But the illusion fails, and time returns to us
to noisy cities where the blue
is see in patches, up between the roofs.
The rain exhausts the earth then;
winter’s tedium weighs the houses down,
the light turns miserly — the soul bitter.
Till one day through a half-shut gate
in a courtyard, there among the trees,
we can see the yellow of the lemons;
and the chill in the heart
melts, and deep in us
the golden horns of sunlight
pelt their songs.

Ellen

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The Falmouth Hotel

I am not as I have been — Benedict, Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, me after six years sans Jim

Friends,

A tout a l’heure. A first photo ahead of time. I’ll be going to Cornwall, starting out May 13th in the afternoon and flying home the 22nd to arrive mid-afternoon. A second time.  friend who will be on the tour with me (I met him last year on the Road Scholar tour to the Lake District and Border country) sent me the promotional photo. Falmouth Hotel, first built 1865, with chateau-style architecture and surrounded by lawn and gardens. A seafront location. I don’t know how I’ll manage to imagine Verity Poldark here … But I can imagine tonight the people who will be on the tour, older middle class people. I have checked out all the places we will visit in Cornwall against a map of the place and will bring a map with me so I can know where things are relative to one another.

I have at long last been diligently reading my books on Cornwall, finishing those half way through, looking at those I’ve finished, trying to make it all vivid in my mind so I have the place and its history fresh in my mind – I will take with me a Daphne DuMaurier novel (Jamaica Inn?), Graham’s Warleggan (Poldark 4), I’m still hoping that Peter Maxted’s The Natural Beauty of Cornwall (he is one of the two Road Scholar leaders) will have come in time. I might best enjoy Bate’s book on Shakespeare, Soul of the Age! (I loved his Future Learn lectures, 1-3, 4-8) but my copy is a heavy hard-back, a beautiful book, but can I lug it? I admit the book that got me through the Lake District last year was a hard-back, beautiful book, Lucy Worseley’s Jane Austen at Home.

One of the real reasons I go away is this way I am with people doing things, looking at the world from a safe vantage provided by Road Scholar and I have gone in August twice because there is no teaching at the OLLIs and most events going on in DC and here in Virginia come to an end, or occur at night and it is so hot here, just about impossible to go out. Looking at the Road Scholar itineraries I found many places don’t have an August set of dates and that was true of Cornwall and I did want to go for the sake of this Poldark project of mine. (That seems to me ironic — and also indicate Road Scholar types don’t worry about when in the year they go. I would have thought August was a vacation time.) So I am making do with mid-May.

All Road Scholar three trips have been to the UK not only based on what I have read but because Jim and I went there once and I’ve wanted to go again or he and I never made it (Lake District). Another motivating force is each year to return to the UK where I met and married and first lived with Jim. England and the countries on these isles have a strong nostalgic memory meaning for me which I’m renewing each year. It’s like I’m going back to him, to where what happiness in life that I’ve know started in England with him in Leeds. “This is where.”


Jim would have picked out this from a book shelf: see John Betjeman at St Enodoc Church, Cornwall

Come on! Come on! This hillock hides the spire.
Now that one and now none. As winds about
The burnished path through lady’s-finger, thyme,
And bright varieties of saxifrage,
So grows the tinny tenor faint or loud
All all things draw toward St. Enodoc.

Where deep cliffs loom enormous, where cascade
Mesembrynthemum and stone-crop down,
Where the gull looks no larger than a lark
Hung midway twixt the cliff-top and the sand,
Sun-shadowed valleys roll along the sea,
Forced by the backwash, see the nearest wave
Rise to a wall of huge, translucent green
And crumble into spray at the top
Blown seaward by the land-breeze. Now she breaks
And in an arch of thunder plunges down
To burst and tumble, foam on top of foam,
Criss-crossing, baffled, sucked and shot again,
A waterfall of whiteness, down a rock,
Withot a source but roller’s furthest reach:
And tufts of sea-pink, high and dry for years,
Are flooded out of ledges, boulders seem
No bigger than a pebble washed about
In this tremendous tide. Oh kindly slate!
To give me shelter in this crevice dry.
These shivering stalks of bent grass, lucky plant,
Have better chance than I to last the storm.
Firm, barren substrate of our windy fields! …


19th century church: St Enodoc, Trebetherick, North Cornwall: Betjeman may be buried here?

And I’ve not given up my dream of a study of Winston Graham’s Poldark novels, working title now, A Matter of Genre.

Speaking of travel, or at least navigation, my garmin is fixed! working again. The man I found to fix it said I must treat it far more gently, and I will. In the meantime I’ve made some progress in learning to use Waze. I now know (more or less) how to get to “where to.” Izy and I did this on Sunday using the Waze to get to the supermarket. But alas I cannot figure out how to shut Waze off. The voice carried on telling me of road conditions.  It kills me how people will persist in saying this or that in electronics or digital things are so easy. They never are to me. I have no intuition and when I do something I must do it several times before the sequence of motions sticks in my head. I assure you I had my heart in my mouth as I drove to the place and tried to find this man without benefit of GPS (though I had taken a mapquest map).

But I now do have two working GPSs!  So one to use and a back up. I should get lost less often and have courage to try again to get to Politics & Prose Bookstore when I come home from Cornwall. I have become a member. I see they have mini-courses all year round, staggered across August too. I shall keep an eye out for a course I might enjoy and try it.

Laura told me over dinner (see below) that the pizza place next door is a where a wild myth about Hilary Clinton and child-trafficking occurring in a basement emerged in brains of impoverished crazed white Americans — Jim and I went there several times after hearing lectures at Politics & Prose — for pizza and to watch a classic movie playing on in a screen above the tables — one lecture I remember by Colm Toibin, who disappointed Jim; Jim had not yet learnt to compromise when you go to a fine author’s lecture for the public generally …

I am told one is paid to teach the courses there, and can see from the site that the people who teach there include people like myself, and I suspect a course once a month or four times over a month on Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Quartet might be welcome and go over very well. A new goal … I am well into Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay and reading it with the Italian of Storia di chi fugge e di chi resta under the English text. A profound text.


From the film of My Brilliant Friend, Lila and Lenu reading Little Women together (I carry on with Anne Boyd Rioux’s Writing for Immortality about 19th century women writers & artists, two of whom are Louisa May & May Alcott)

I just finished teaching Trollope’s CYFH? and in the class where the institution encourages people in the class to provide an honorarium in cash, I cleared $300. A card with many generous thank yous. At the OLLI at Mason, the last class went very well too. In both I again had my Macbook pro laptop and showed clips from the Pallisers, using the cursor and a scroll along the frame of the in-built DVD, good talk after. The Mason group appeared genuinely interested in my Enlightenment: At Risk course. So I will have plenty of cash to take with me, and I will bring Andrew Curran’s Diderot, or the Art of Writing, at least one book by one of my Booker Prize Short and Short listed books (the course I’ll teach at OLLI at AU in June) authors, perhaps Julian Barnes’s A History of the World in 10 and 1/2 chapters.

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Wednesday was Isobel’s 35th birthday, and so an anniversary for me who gave birth to her too. Yesterday I remembered how on my 35th birthday Jim sent me Johnson’s poem to Hester Thrale:

On her completing her Thirty-fifth Year

OFT in danger, yet alive,
We are come to thirty-five;
Long may better years arrive,
Better years than thirty-five.
Could philosophers contrive
Life to stop at thirty-five,
Time his hours should never drive
O’er the bounds of thirty-five.
High to soar, and deep to dive,
Nature gives at thirty-five.
Ladies, stock and tend your hive,
Trifle not at thirty-five;
For, howe’er we boast and strive,
Life declines from thirty-five;
He that ever hopes to thrive
Must begin at thirty-five;
And all who wisely wish to wive
Must look on Thrale at thirty-five.

I didn’t send it to Izzy because she would not understand it — instead I sent her a lovely Jacquie Lawson card — it looked like a 19th century book illustration in black, white and greys and ivory colors and is gradually filled with colorful flowers, music En Bateau from Petite Suite by Claude Debussy.

I replaced a broken frame and put a photo taken of Jim and I two mornings after we had met, had come together and were living for a week in an attic flat in Leeds. I then realized that in my sun-room I have no picture of him, so now it stands on a medium bookcase where I can see it from my chair as I read. The way we were:


I am just 22, and he is 20. As I look at myself I see the same face that appears in my profile picture. Much smoother, rounder, high cheek bones but the same face, also my hands are the same. Just the color hair. Mine is grey-white now.

But he lost that sweet boy look soon after we came to live in NYC, so well before his thirties. His face no longer so round and flat, his beard much fuller. His very skin color lost the whiteness; I have some intimate photos of him looking very gentle but am unwilling to share these; one close up shows the same features in a face altered by 8 years in another culture:

Tonight we went with Laura and her husband, Rob, to dinner on Friday to Izzy’s favorite restaurant, the Olive Garden on Columbia Pike. The meal delicious, the place comfortable and pretty, we had some cheerful talk — about Laura’s trip to Chicago this spring. She was surprised by the intense cold and wind. The restaurant gives so much (yummy) food that I, Laura, and Rob brought home 3/4s of what was on our plates.

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This Gorey drawing with colors is the April picture in my desk datebook, and now that April’s done and we are into May rains, I share it here: a fair metaphoric representation of humanity too. I have all five Gorey books — Jim enjoyed these enormously.

Thus I conclude on my two beloved cat companions.

One sign of how ClaryCat is now middle-aged is how she now sits or lays calmly in her catbed by an open window which has an awning overawning it, which has 2 bird nests on its inner shelves. Eggs and a momma sparrow with occasional visits of papa appear seasonally. When Clary was young, she be all over Jim’s desk (on which the catbed lays) in hectic excitement, trying to reach the birds and knock down things. Now she sits there and makes little whimpering or squeeky noises. Very alert. She looks out and sees a great deal from that window of interest to her: other birds, squirrels, she follow noises. But just sitting now — staid. She also stretches out luxuriating in the sun in my sunroom for considerable half hours — something she didn’t do when younger. She murmurs at me as we go through our days and nights together. So does Ian when he first turns up (after periodic hiding) again. “Here I am again,” he is saying; he comes up to my chair sometimes and puts his paw on my arm. I’ve read that cats do not instinctively make noise to communicate — it’s their long association with people that prompts this way of communicating.


Clarycat

I so love my Clarycat.

Often when I’m about to go out and I find her latest trophy toy (the tiny mouse has disappeared), a sock with catnip in it (long gone) laid over my shoes. Nowadays she puts this sock where I am or have been just or where something I’ve just worn or read is. She will trot about with it in her mouth, making crying sounds to get my attention, before she puts it down. Just as she used to, her little mouse. Above is a photo of her on the other side of my computer before she stretched out in the patch of white light sun to sleep.

I look at their bodies and see (from books) what are signs of middle-agedness — they are in their early 50s. A pouch; they are no longer that graceful or agile as they run. His face is funny colored and longer. Well look at me — remember the opening of Persuasion; we don’t want to be like Sir Walter, do we? and not realize how old we get. Ian still loves to play and his favorite time is just before supper; he waits by a colorful string attached to a kind of funnel, murmurs at me, and I take it and he wrestles and plays until he has had enough.

They are also wiser, mature in their interactions with me and so am I with them. I shall miss them while I am gone, and they me.


Ian, his latest favorite place high on the cabinets where he can see me and thinks I cannot see him (like Snuffalupagus)

In the long days and nights, my cats’ murmuring at me or meowing in a talking way and my talking in English back to them breaks the silence — mornings I use my ipad and listen to the Pete Seeger channel, Bob Dylan, the Beatles, but just as often Nanci Griffiths or Mary Chapin Carpenter with other women singing country.

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Just before going to bed, I’m watching Andrew Davies’s magnificent Middlemarch (1994) — having finished his Doctor Zhivago (2001). Zhivago done in by war, revolution, his own susceptibility to tenderness and integrity. My favorite line was his stubborn reiteration that what he wanted to do with his life, his hours, was what he could do with it best: be a doctor and write poetry. Leave him alone to do what he can that a few others might value in the world.

I had forgotten the story of Lydgate to some extent: the thwarting of all his hopes to do some real extensive good in the world, to be a scientist, the political and career angle of the book. Davies brings this home so poignantly — also the story of Farebrother. I had also forgotten just how truly masterly is this earlier film adaptation. It is so detailed in the speeches, and they are so intelligently done and pointed. Middlemarch stands out as a high standard: fully intelligent believable thought, these truly well and carefully studied, integrated scenes of several complicated human presences at once are not what’s wanted any more. My midnight project is to go through everyone of Andrew Davies’s films.


Douglas Hodge as Lydgate: young, eager, unbowed — come to think of it like Yuri in Zhivago, he dies relatively young – so here is the pull, why Davies lit on this pair


Juliet Aubry as Dorothea hard at work on plans for cottages for workers

I also read John Berger’s Ways of Seeing bit by bit (after seeing YouTubes of his famous series) and fretted that I am going away for false reasons, allured by publicity pictures of un-reality, desirous not to be left out of this other (luminous?) world. But Pas de fantasie? Last words read by me on some nights putting out the light are words of sex reverie from an Outlander volume.

Ellen

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