The Reader Online

Baines seeks refuge in the diaries of Peter Eames – the Victorian architect who has captivated Baines’ imagination.

After a restless night Baines woke and spotted Eames’ diary, which he felt brought somehow a slight shimmer of life like Miss Havisham’s wedding cake. This remark brought a few chuckles as our group has not long finished Great Expectations and quite often Dickens seems to be following us like a distant shadow!

He picked up the diary and like a trip in Dr Who’s Tardis we were transported back to 1864. Eames was now married with a child on the way, is living in a nice area and thirdly his building Janus House has opened although the press do not speak kindly of it. Although people’s reviews perhaps should not be taken too seriously as it is just one person’s feelings and thoughts – just like with The Rescue Man – you can read it and think something completely different from someone else in the group but thankfully we live in a free country and as the saying says, ‘Everyone is entitled to their opinion.’

There was one admirer though, so one star was shining to provide a touch of light as Eames noticed a young man taking sketches, who introduces himself and pays Eames the compliment of being a ‘Poet of Architecture’. A beautiful building could be compared to a poem by Milton. Art comes in many forms – paintings, words, music. The passages led to a discussion – about how people having different interests is what makes the human race interesting. All my life I have only really been interested in words and anything other than words is frankly incomprehensible to me!

All this praise however luckily did not enlarge Eames’ head as he realised his building only represented ‘a sonnet’ and not a ‘full-blown epic like Paradise Lost.’

The period between Christmas and New Year is very peculiar indeed. For six days or so, everything seems to have been turned on its head – you aren’t quite sure what day it is, the lazy holiday mood is still lingering and normal service is waiting to be resumed. It’s almost as if the whole of time has been temporarily suspended, somehow (Of course, if you’re already back at work, this most likely does not apply – as a naïve graduate of just on six months, I have yet to experience anything other than a Christmas filled with lie-ins and long hours spent with bottomless boxes of chocolates in my lap).

I have to say I rather enjoy these slightly weird but ever so satisfying days, and to revel in their topsy-turviness even more so here’s an especially nonsensical poem from the master of marvellous nonsense, Lewis Carroll. It doesn’t serve much purpose but to rattle a head already made slightly slushy by too much turkey and Christmas pud, but it is a bit of a fun. Besides, if you can’t have some silliness at this time of year, then really – when can you?

The Mad Gardener’s Song

He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
‘At length I realise,’ he said,
The bitterness of Life!’

He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister’s Husband’s Niece.
‘Unless you leave this house,’ he said,
“I’ll send for the Police!’

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
‘The one thing I regret,’ he said,
‘Is that it cannot speak!’

He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
‘If this should stay to dine,’ he said,
‘There won’t be much for us!’

He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said,
‘I should be very ill!’

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘poor silly thing!
It’s waiting to be fed!’

He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage Stamp.
‘You’d best be getting home,’ he said:
‘The nights are very damp!’

He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
‘And all its mystery,’ he said,
‘Is clear as day to me!’

He thought he saw a Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said,
‘Extinguishes all hope!’

Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)

The tree is up and decorated to within an inch of its life, the cards and Christmas greetings have been sent and the fridge is well stocked with indulgent food. There’s not much more to be done but to make the most of the season. So why not, just for now, put your feet up in front of the fire, grab a glass of mulled wine or a snowball (or whatever other tipple pleases your pallet) and enjoy this poem by George Wither. There are Christmas Carols a-plenty in the world of literature and poetry, but I find this one particularly enjoyable and encapsulating of Christmases gone by and those present. Its underlying message to simply be merry is something we can all identify with. From all at The Reader Online and The Reader Organisation, we wish you a peaceful and very happy Christmastime.

A Christmas Carol

So now is come our joyful’st feast,
Let every man be jolly.
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbors’ chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak’d-meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if for cold it hap to die,
We’ll bury ‘t in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labor;
Our lasses have provided them
A bag-pipe and a tabor.
Young men and maids and girls and boys
Give life to one another’s joys,
And you anon shall by their noise
Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun,
Their hall of music soundeth,
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.
The country folk themselves advance,
For crowdy-mutton’s come out of France.
And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.

Ned Swash hath fetch’d his bands from pawn,
And all his best apparel;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
With droppings of the barrel;
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.

Now poor men to the justices
With capons make their arrants,
And if they hap to fail of these
They plague them with their warrants.
But now they feed them with good cheer,
And what they want they take in beer,
For Christmas comes but once a year,
And then they shall be merry.

Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor, that else were undone.
Some landlords spend their money worse,
On lust and pride at London.
There the roisters they do play,
Drab and dice their land away,
Which may be ours another day;
And therefore let’s be merry.

The client now his suit forbears,
The prisoner’s heart is eased,
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleased.
Though others’ purses be more fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow, care will kill a cat,
And therefore let’s be merry.

Hark how the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you’ll see them in the hall
For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark how the roofs with laughters sound!
Anon they’ll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar’s depth have found,
And there they will be merry.

The wenches with their wassail bowls
About the streets are singing,
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild mare in is bringing.
Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbors come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.

Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have,
And mate with everybody;
The honest now may play the knave,
And wise men play at noddy.
Some youths will now a-mumming go,
Some others play at rowlandhoe,
And twenty other gameboys moe,
Because they will be merry.

Then wherefore in these merry days
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller.
And, whilst thus inspir’d we sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring,
Woods and hills and everything,
Bear witness we are merry.

George Wither (1588-1667)

Before you head off for the festive break, have you remembered to sign up for ‘New Beginnings‘, our first national Get Into Reading Conference, Supper and Readers’ Day on 8th – 9th Jan 2010 in Liverpool?

Join in the conversation about Get Into Reading at the Conference on Friday 8th Jan and take part in a fun and inspiring Readers’ Day with guest authors on Saturday 9th Jan  – plus, don’t forget the Friday Night Supper: ‘The Value of Reading in a Life’ (with Clare Allan, Brian Keenan, Dr David Fearnley and Jane Davis)

Confirmed speakers over the two days are:

• Clare Allan (author, Poppy Shakespeare)
• Susan Blishen (Mental Health Foundation)
• Dr Jane Davis (Founder and Director of The Reader Organisation)
• Dr David Fearnley (RCPysch Psychiatrist of the Year; Medical Director and Deputy Chief of Mersey Care NHS Trust)
• Brian Keenan (author, An Evil Cradling)
• Blake Morrison (author, journalist and Chair of The Reader Organisation)
• Stuart Smith (Executive Director, Children’s Services, Liverpool City Council)
• plus, Reader Development Librarians, teachers and health professionals, involved with Get Into Reading from across the UK.

… and there are a whole series of workshops to choose from over the two days.

Tickets cost £120 for the whole New Beginnings Experience (£80 for the Get Into Reading Conference, £25 for the Friday Night Supper, £30 for the Readers’ Day) and are going fast, so book your place as soon as possible! Click here to book.

For more information, please contact Claire Speer, Conference Administrator: clairespeer@thereader.org.uk.

Today is the Winter Solstice and with it comes the official start of the longest (or so it seems) season of all. Although it really does seem like we’ve been in the thick of it for a little while, what with the plummeting temperatures, arctic winds and windows that drip with condensation greeting me each morning. Depending on which part of the UK you’re in, there’s a chance you’ve received your first flurry of snowfall. I know winter has really hit home when the heating system is switched on of a nightly basis and when I begin living in my biggest of jumpers and snuggliest of socks – and that has happened without me even realising.

So, this week’s featured poem has a wintry theme – although it’s the notion of an untold secret that arouses more interest. Yes, Christina Rossetti has certainly intrigued many with this poem and there have been any number of speculative guesses of what the secret she speaks of could possibly be. I have to admit that it was not what lay at the heart of said ‘secret’ that grabbed my immediate attention on first reading but the intertwining of the winter with the secret. The idea of keeping something secret seems to somehow fit quite comfortably with the season, with everything being wrapped up tight and hidden away more easily than it would usually be; the shawl, veil and cloak that Rossetti surrounds herself in keeps out the outer cold and protects the inner secret from the prying attention of others. Conversely, winter could also be the thing that threatens to expose a secret – note the draughts that ‘come whistling thro’ my hall…Nipping and clipping thro’ my wraps and all’, as well as the mask that is worn for ‘warmth’ and perhaps too for self-preservation. I also just love the idea of a secret being frozen that appears in the third line and the image it conjures up, of something forever held as it is, unknown and producing an endless quest for knowledge from those who see it. Much like any singular poem, I suppose, whose meaning remains a secret to everyone but its author.

Rossetti keeps us hanging, never revealing her secret – or indeed confirming that there is one to begin with – just giving us an estimated time of when we may know more, far off into the summer months when things and people alike generally are freer. Winter is a time to keep things close to your chest, to gather all the warmth you can. I think that this poem exudes a playful energy in its teasing and ambiguity, and hope it serves as a winter warmer.

Winter: My Secret

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you’re too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret’s mine, and I won’t tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there’s none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today’s a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro’ my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro’ my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring’s an expansive time: yet I don’t trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro’ the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there’s not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

There seem to be a few techinical hitches on the blog this morning (has it, like Eurostar, been affected by the cold weather too?), which means that the Featured Poem hasn’t been published yet. I’m looking intothe problem and hope to have it sorted out very soon, please accept my apologies for the delay.

Throughout the book Baines has been haunted by various shadows from his past – one of which involves the suicide of an intimate friend called Alice, who Baines met whilst studying at university. Without wanting to give too much away, Louise reflects upon how Baines reacts when confronted by someone from that past at the photography exhibition.

On to Chapter 6 and the exhibition finally opened and we all started laughing when the comment was made – ‘It is virtually impossible to hold a party in Liverpool without gatecrashers.’ I remember the crush at my brother’s 21st, and afterwards when asked who some of the people were he was clueless, like asking me a maths question and I failed maths miserably!

Arriving at the exhibition Baines got a glimpse of a face he thought he recognised and we had a discussion about how you can see a face and think you know them and give them a whack on the back and say ‘Hiya’, only to realise you have thumped a stranger! Tom’s eyesight had put him in good stead and the person he recognised was Duncan Heathcote from Architectural School. Heathcote showed no signs of recognition but flinched with Baine’s mention of the name Alice, but was still dismissive of Tom. This was the red flag to a bull and suddenly fists were flying. I know from experience someone will say something which makes you explode into a rage of fire and the fists begin to roam. The two were soon surrounded by the other party goers shouting ‘Fight, Fight!’

Afterwards Tom was beginning to wonder why he blew his fuse and shame began to grow inside him and we talked about how when we explode it is not long after that feelings of guilt begin to fester. Tom could not face seeing the crowds again but Bella encouraged him to go for a drink and explain the reasons for his outburst! The two walked in silence and Bella encouraged Tom to talk and Tom knew an explanation of his behaviour was needed. Often I explode, and it is always easier to try and explain my behaviour although it does nothing to erode the guilt away! So Tom began his story.

On this morning’s ‘Today’ programme (Radio 4), Josephine Hart spoke ardently about the decline of English Literature within education syllabi.  She said that because, unfortunately, English Literature is regarded as an “elite subject” within our culture, it is only really offered to the high achievers to study, that there are thousands of children going through their education without access to great books and only learning “communications skills”.

Speaking on the programme, Schools Minister Diana Johnson, agreed that we must encourage more than ‘basic literacy skills’ by reading great books but when questioned about it, was unable to defend the fact that far less literature is being taught in schools. It looks like come 2010, the GCSE syllabus will not contain a separate GCSE in English Literature but that only the combined English Language and Literature qualification will be taught. On one hand, it’s good to keep the two together – this brings advantages for literacy and communication skills but it’s worrying that this may be the only focus and that the depth of feeling and wide range of experiences that reading literature offers, will be lost.

The humanising power of literature should be available to all young people and Michael Rosen commented on the programme that the “low level of expectation in Government” has led to deprived people being given a “deprived curriculum”. If people are only given the minimum, then that’s all that they will be able to achieve – it simply can’t be the case that we can work on a minimum basis. If people don’t come into contact with reading that will enthuse and enlighten them, how can we lift people’s achievements?

Josephine Hart is absolutely right in saying that we need passionate people to enthuse children about reading – that human contact is essential – and that’s why our Get Into Reading project workers are in schools and foster homes, reading with young people one-to-one and in groups, to encourage reading for pleasure. This is one way in which our Reading Revolution is happening – and making a very real difference to the lives of these young people. As Jeremy Irons mentioned on the programme, we need to give people a “rounded experience of the life that’s available to them” and there’s no better way to do this than through the reading of great books.

— — —

Linked to this is Gabriella Gruder-Poni’s essay, ‘Scenes from a PGCE’, which was published in The Reader 35 and is available online here.

I suspect that the majority of people who read The Reader Online have a personal reading ‘to-do’ list. My own stretches a long way and gets longer by the day, due to the additions of newly released titles by favoured authors, recommendations by friends and anything that catches my eye on various trips to Waterstones. It is particularly lengthy given the fact that I am a – how can I say it – thorough reader; given the thickness of the book, it can take me from anywhere to a month to near-on a whole season to complete it (War and Peace would take a good couple of years, I’m sure). Some poor novels have been languishing on my list for an eternity, some half-read while the distractions of life have preoccupied me, but none forgotten.

My latest read is a fairly new addition to the list, Audrey Niffenegger’s new novel Her Fearful Symmetry, which I snapped up after my dad devoured it in the space of two weeks (a record-breaking time I could only dream of making). So far it’s shaping up to be quite interesting indeed. I recently revisited Niffenegger’s debut, The Time Traveler’s Wife, having first read it two and a half years ago and completely falling in love. It’s one of, if not my favourite modern novel, and contains one of my favourite quotations. When I read the words as an introduction to the third part of the book, they resonated on a personal level quite intensely, seeming to sum up the problems I faced at that time and offering in some way a certain light at the end of the tunnel. Simply put, I found them beautiful. They were as follows: “She followed slowly, taking a long time, as though there were some obstacle in the way; and yet: as though, once it was overcome, she would be beyond all walking, and would fly.” They were not the words of the author; they were taken from a poem entitled Going Blind by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Being as moved as I was by this extract, I sought out the poem and more of Rilke’s work – I find it nice that reading any one book can often lead you on a literary treasure trail of discovery. And what a discovery Rilke was to me. For me, his poetry says so much about various very recognisable things and aspects of the human condition and simultaneously possesses some kind of unexplained, possibly otherworldly quality. Perhaps it’s his lyricism, his belief in the idea that people were merely spectators in life who could only see and feel beauty for the briefest of moments before letting it slip away. I have chosen what I think is a particularly beautiful poem by Rilke to feature this week, one which I believe is suitable for describing any number of scenarios and personal wonderings.

You Who Never Arrived

You who never arrived

in my arms, Beloved, who were lost

from the start,

I don’t even know what songs

would please you. I have given up trying

to recognize you in the surging wave of

the next moment. All the immense

images in me — the far-off, deeply-felt

landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and

unsuspected turns in the path,

and those powerful lands that were once

pulsing with the life of the gods–

all rise within me to mean

you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all

the gardens I have ever gazed at,

longing. An open window

in a country house– , and you almost

stepped out, pensive, to meet me.

Streets that I chanced upon,–

you had just walked down them and vanished.

And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors

were still dizzy with your presence and,

startled, gave back my too-sudden image.

Who knows? Perhaps the same

bird echoed through both of us

yesterday, separate, in the evening…

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Looking for something to get you in the festive mood, with more than a touch of literary appeal? If you didn’t manage to snap up tickets for The Penny Readings, don’t be too sad as there’s plenty of time to catch two very special seasonal productions at The Lantern Theatre.

The Lantern Theatre is a newly opened fringe theatre located in Blundell Street, Liverpool City Centre which has its roots in educational and community-based theatre, and is planning to showcase a range of original and classic productions in the upcoming year. It has chosen to kick off proceedings with versions of two of the best loved Christmas literature classics, A Christmas Carol and The Snow Queen.

Perhaps the most famous Christmas story ever, A Christmas Carol promises to stay true to Dickens’ original text and characters while also injecting some originality onto the stage through work with masks and physical theatre. The production runs from 5^th to 30^th December 2009 (excluding 23^rd-28^th December), with tickets costing £10 and £8 for concessions.

The Snow Queen, one of Hans Christian Andersen’s most enchanting stories, is sure to transport both children and adults alike into a magical and mysterious fairytale world. It promises to capture “the power of friendship and the magic of Christmas”. It runs from 5^th December 2009 to 6^th February 2010, with tickets from £6.50 for adults and £5 concessions.

For more information, visit http://www.thelanterntheatre.co.uk/whats-on/ or telephone 0151 703 0000.