My dear
It was very thoughtful of you to write me a letter on Thursday which would help to carry me over the weekend. It arrived this morning. It is a beautiful picture you draw of your placid self ruminating over a cup of hot milk before going to bed with Hardy. I am very pleased to hear that you are taking this wise passivity so seriously.
I envy you having all the old favourite books at hand. I have read just about all I want to read of the library here: the remainder consists of books that no-one could ever read even on a desert island. The charm about re-reading the classics is that you know you won't be disappointed and your relish for the good bits seems to grow with familiarity.
At present I am picking my way through Memoirs of a Mountaineer by F. Spencer Chapman. In addition to doing a lot of Himalayan climbing he went as a member of a British diplomatic mission to Lhasa. But in spite of all the interesting things he saw and did in Tibet, his book makes dull reading except when he deals with the rigours of his climbing. The only really gripping passages describe hours spent on icy windswept ridges or long nights in freezing bivouacs at 23000 feet. Modern writers about mountains are inclined to jeer at the pompous style assumed by some of their Victorian predecessors like Tyndall and Wills. But the latter, with all their obvious faults, had an instinct for drama which the modern writers, more restrained in their feelings or possibly more truthful, lack completely. I like to read the pompous and grandiose thoughts which the Victorians ascribed to themselves on completing a difficult climb, even though at the time they probably thought on nothing but bursting lungs and hearts.
Sunday
I am continuing this at the astonishing hour of 6am. I have been on night duty; have done some work, had a little sleep and I am now looking forward to breakfast and then more sleep in my billet. It's amazing how hungry one gets during the night in spite of sandwiches which the Mess provides. ...
Meanwhile you will be doing your azure-lidded act for another three hours at least. But instead of the candied quince and other delicacies which Keats imagined near his sleeping beauty, you'll have an odd pint or two of certified on your table, or a box of vitamin tablets.
5 hours later
I have had breakfast and a short snooze and now I want to finish this note for the mid-day post. Last night I started reading O Absalom by Howard Spring. One of the men in the billet brought it in and with vague recollections of some sexy passages in Shabby Tiger, I grabbed the book. However it is very disappointing, full of slushy sentiment by Irish characters who all talk like Deirdre of the Sorrows. The Irish are tolerable when they are light-hearted but when they start wailing in their Celtic Twilight, I've had it.
Note incidentally how that beautiful RAF phrase lends itself to the periodic construction of sentences. And while on this subject, I've discovered another failing of mine: Fowler speaks slightingly of the persons who in handwriting, "are well content if they get a dot in somewhere within measurable distance of its 'i'".
I am looking forward to hearing you again tonight: it's lovely how the weeks are slipping past. Please continue to lead the life of a beautiful vegetable. I'm sure it must be doing you a lot of good after your too busy life in recent years. And you can ask yourself how many children we should need to have to make it worth your while standing in queue at the post office each week to collect the State's benison on your fertility.
Sweetheart, this letter is more nonsensical than usual. .... I hope you will keep well from now on. Just be as selfish and indulgent as you like.
Showing posts with label Keats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Keats. Show all posts
Monday, March 14, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday 25 January 1945, Earl's Colne
My Margaret
No Keatsian hare ever limped more tremblingly over more frozen grass than did I coming on duty this evening. As for the limping, I am glad to say my rheumatism is considerably improved; hours spent massaging my leg in front of a red-hot stove are at last having their effect. But I can truthfully say I never saw grass more frozen or trees more heavily coated with hoar frost than what we have here. As a winter landscape it is all rather fine but we live too near the margin of discomfort here to be able to appreciate fully he beauties of the frost. I hope you are not having the same kind of weather in Glasgow: if you are, you had better leave several fires burning at 66*, day and night.
Your letter of 22 Jan arrived yesterday. Like you I am not yet entirely accustomed to the surprise and delight of getting letters so quickly and frequently. Please get rid of that sore throat at once and don't hesitate to stay off school if necessary. You know perfectly well that you get little thanks for struggling out to school when you are not really fit. Sorry to hear about your aunt's death. I knew she was not well but did not realise just how serious her illness was. I hope it has not upset your mother too much. How is her cold? She can't be anticipating a very lengthy convalescence when she has chosen such a small book as Pride and Prejudice for sick reading.
I've been talking to some people who have spent the whole war dodging around home stations and am astonished at their querulous attitude. One complains because he has been posted 50 miles away from home after being billeted on his wife for over a year. Another moans because his leave is two months overdue. For myself, I am so glad to be relatively near you, to get letters every other day, and to hear you once a week, that I keep my fingers crossed to preserve this happy state of affairs. People at home haven't got the same philosophy as those poor wretches overseas who simply had to make the best of service life or go completely round the bend.
That sounds a perfectly bloody tea-party that you are going to on Sunday. It's hard to imagine a more deadly combination unless perhaps M_______ could be added to the brew. I'm glad you can use my phone call as an excuse for getting away.
Your description of your own soul as being a vacant lot ready for possession by several hundred devils is extremely alarming - that is if I am meant to take it seriously. Also, it is disturbing to be told that I am responsible for this dangerous state. I can't help you with my own "convictions" because convictions are emotional things and I feel it rather presumptuous for anyone to be convinced about religious truths. All one can do is to suggest modestly that certain things seem reasonable while others are an affront to reason.
Someone has been inconsiderate enough to bring in some work so I'll have to stop. I keep hoping I may see you again in the not too distant future, so keep me au fait with the painters. Look after yourself, darling.
...
*66 Novar Drive, where their flat was. The letters are all addressed c/o Stewart, 155 Hyndland Road, where his wife stayed with her parents for much of the time when DF was away.
No Keatsian hare ever limped more tremblingly over more frozen grass than did I coming on duty this evening. As for the limping, I am glad to say my rheumatism is considerably improved; hours spent massaging my leg in front of a red-hot stove are at last having their effect. But I can truthfully say I never saw grass more frozen or trees more heavily coated with hoar frost than what we have here. As a winter landscape it is all rather fine but we live too near the margin of discomfort here to be able to appreciate fully he beauties of the frost. I hope you are not having the same kind of weather in Glasgow: if you are, you had better leave several fires burning at 66*, day and night.
Your letter of 22 Jan arrived yesterday. Like you I am not yet entirely accustomed to the surprise and delight of getting letters so quickly and frequently. Please get rid of that sore throat at once and don't hesitate to stay off school if necessary. You know perfectly well that you get little thanks for struggling out to school when you are not really fit. Sorry to hear about your aunt's death. I knew she was not well but did not realise just how serious her illness was. I hope it has not upset your mother too much. How is her cold? She can't be anticipating a very lengthy convalescence when she has chosen such a small book as Pride and Prejudice for sick reading.
I've been talking to some people who have spent the whole war dodging around home stations and am astonished at their querulous attitude. One complains because he has been posted 50 miles away from home after being billeted on his wife for over a year. Another moans because his leave is two months overdue. For myself, I am so glad to be relatively near you, to get letters every other day, and to hear you once a week, that I keep my fingers crossed to preserve this happy state of affairs. People at home haven't got the same philosophy as those poor wretches overseas who simply had to make the best of service life or go completely round the bend.
That sounds a perfectly bloody tea-party that you are going to on Sunday. It's hard to imagine a more deadly combination unless perhaps M_______ could be added to the brew. I'm glad you can use my phone call as an excuse for getting away.
Your description of your own soul as being a vacant lot ready for possession by several hundred devils is extremely alarming - that is if I am meant to take it seriously. Also, it is disturbing to be told that I am responsible for this dangerous state. I can't help you with my own "convictions" because convictions are emotional things and I feel it rather presumptuous for anyone to be convinced about religious truths. All one can do is to suggest modestly that certain things seem reasonable while others are an affront to reason.
Someone has been inconsiderate enough to bring in some work so I'll have to stop. I keep hoping I may see you again in the not too distant future, so keep me au fait with the painters. Look after yourself, darling.
...
*66 Novar Drive, where their flat was. The letters are all addressed c/o Stewart, 155 Hyndland Road, where his wife stayed with her parents for much of the time when DF was away.
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