A bucket load of Beckett

Good news this week; the first volume of The Letters of Samuel Beckett was published. I've always liked Beckett for his ability to turn the absurd into pure poetry. Beckett was also on the fringes of the genre that I have liked (or been obsessed with) all my life i.e. Pound and his cronies. Beckett only popped-up in that group as James Joyce's secretary amongst other things. But he made an impression with Pound.

Here's an amusing story in James Laughlin's book: Pound as Wuz. The time was 1967 and Pound had retreated into his silent period. He was taken to Paris by Olga Rudge for the publication of French translations of some of his books. During the trip he was driven to the chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte. 'Swinging his cane, Ezra walked briskly through the house and the gardens. No comment whatever. But that evening he uttered. He had been seeing his old friend Sam Beckett, who had taken him to a performance of Fin de Partie (Endgame), the play in which two characters are in garbage cans. Out of the blue he said, "C'etait moi dans la poubelle." (I was the one in the garbage can.)

Evidently Samuel Beckett and James Joyce were also 'addicted to silences' they 'engaged in conversations which consisted often of silences directed toward each other, both suffused with sadness.'

But as for joy, there is a new production of Waiting for Godot in London and the provinces opening soon, starring Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart. I predict that it will be one of the highlights of the year. Particularly if Pozzo and Lucky are played well. Those two characters, in my opinion, characterise the play. They bring in the absurd; they offer a wider canvas (Pozzo could have been threatened with crucifixion, Lucky could be the mess that the world has got into). Go see this production, it could change your life.

For those that were concerned at the last sentiments in my last blog, fear not. The silence was deafening, but I'm not finished yet. I have much to say and much to do; but it would still be nice to hear from you (someone did say that my 'Time' poem was nice - never a very stirring word that, but I'll take it for what it's worth). To end, let me just say in passing, The Pet Shop Boys were so good at The Brits Awards (my son has just fallen off his chair, because he didn't even know I knew the PSB...but don't worry son it was only a one-off, back to Brahms German Requiem for me).

The Man Who Went Away

I am looking for a book published in 1952 (in the States, I believe) by George Paul Solomos called The Man Who Went Away. I've tried AbeBooks again and again, but no luck. Pass the word around please; I really would like to find this book that I read many years ago and the author who was a friend and mentor in my early writing life.

Talking of publishing I met a very interesting small publishing company this week called: the Gatehouse Press, see: www.gatehousepress.com. They publish some fine authors (like George Szirtes and Jo Kjaer) and are run by an author and charming man: Tom Corbett. For those who live in my neck of the woods, or who hanker after our corner of the word go buy Shuck, Hick, Tiffey! written by George Szirtes. It's three Norfolk libretti which evoke a life as interesting as the environment it celebrates. If you do nothing this week go to Gatehouse, its website is a bit rusty but its output is well worth collecting.

Talking of nothing in particular I came across a lovely poem by Hilaire Belloc called The Garden Party, in a beautiful book called England from Eland Publishing. The first verse is:

The Rich arrive in pairs
And also in Rolls Royces;
They talked of their affairs
In loud and strident voices.

I thought that today, the equivalent might be:

The Celebs arrived alone
And also in Lamborghinis
They talked of Sylvester Stallone
In between drinking bellinis.

Back to basics of an amazing kind; another encounter on my travels was with a company that is surviving in these difficult times, and long may it do so. Based here in North Norfolk it is the epitome of a cottage industry. Everything is made by hand, by local people, in sheds and bolt holes, using strong and lasting materials. Whilst I was with these wonderful people (you'll see the extended 'family' on the website) one of the cats (named fidget for obvious reasons) would not leave me alone, chickens ran everywhere (would you like some they said, just help yourself) and the place exuded old world charm and individuality. May it never go the way of China, or much worse. Enjoy: www.carriercompany.co.uk.

This ragbag this week, is brought about by the desire to reach out, to connect. I know I have a small following, but I would like to think it could be more. So pass on my blog address to all that you think might benefit from literary ramblings and other bits & bobs that come out of my head from time to time. Clearly, me in my small corner, and you in yours, is not reaching out to a wider world out there. Or perhaps they have opened the door, looked inside, realised it's an old and musty gut bucket and moved on. Don't blame them, I only keep one essential site that I look at every day: www.katson.blogspot.com. But it would be good to know that these ramblings are of some interest, or should I just turn the light out and pull the duvet over my head?

Artists reject banks as source of income...

...it was ever thus.

 

Here's a quote from a circular that Ezra Pound and other artists put together in 1922 to try and stop T S Eliot having to work at a bank to earn a living. Note the figures quoted and realise how far we have come from then and how much greed has taken over: 

 

In order that T S Eliot may leave his work in Lloyd's Bank and devote his whole time to literature, we are raising a fund, to be 300 pounds annually; this being in our opinion the minimum possible for this purpose. Method, 10 pounds, fifty dollars...payable yearly by 30 subscribers.

 

This appeal went on, in a way you would expect from Pound, but was, ultimately, successful in getting Eliot out of banking and into full-time literature.

 

The world would have been poorer without Eliot's richness of poetry. Whilst, I'm sure he would have continued to write, to work in business and to write in private does not work. I've have tried it over the years and you have seen the manifestations. Try as I may (and I remember my long suffering wife putting up with me writing until the early hours, whilst she was in bed, or feeding our new born children, before I got up early in the morning and stumbled off to work) mammon has been the pull, in place of the muse.

 

But now; well the chance to share my writings and ramblings with you, if there is anyone listening? As well as the chance to celebrate the writers I grew up on. So let me end with some memorable lines from Eliot's Prufrock:

 

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table

 

Now if that isn't worth walking out of a bank for, then nothing is.

Show Me The Bird For Killing (a scrap from the archives)

Recollection: frail Father place the nocturne before you.

Leave eyes molten and touch my hand, I wish to feel the

old brown skin with its cracks and festerments.

 

Swan-walk, the rifle nestling beneath your winter coat;

enough time to crack a few chestnuts and send running the

young boys who quietly fish. This silence you can beat,

knock the hell from it and bring this remoteness back to

its place beside the High Street. Show me the bird for killing;

will it be fat and worth eating or should I not ask until it is

dead? Over at the green cricket - the barb catches wool and pulls

me back - the green burns. It is not only chestnuts on the

floor, there are feathers with dry blood upon the quill, so fill

the bags with more and we will clean the leaves and droppings.

After which we shall go and watch the Sunday game, Father is

walking with a large shadow - onward to the refreshment hut.

The clean whites are attractive by the side of wrought tables,

we could sit and drink tea. These crates of empty bottles are

not so good as the trays of tea; you seem to like them Father

though they have no more juice, like the boy who drinks it.

 

Crease each stare do I, my eyes watch the red covered bottle.