Lunch Macabre...

“Let there be a spice of terror,” wrote John Dickson Carr, “of dark skies and evil things.”

Well, at today’s Friday Lunch we certainly tried our best – or should that be worst? The jack-o’-lantern grinned its fiery grin; spiders crawled o’er the table; witch’s blood (grapefruit smoothie) was greedily lapped up; the skeleton in our closet was hung up for all to see; we told ghost stories and read creepy poems (including ‘Porphyria’s Lover’ by Robert Browning)…

Good Chris, Bad Chris...

Then there came a hollow knock at the door (which creaked open in a very sinister manner) and a mysterious visitor entered. Dracula? Dr Frankenstein? The Prince of Darkness Himself? Nope – it was Colin Gray from Hereford, with his wife Kathy and son Tom. Colin, far from being an axe-wielding maniac or slavering member of the un-dead, is one of our trained facilitators who has recently started a reading group at the Kindle Centre in Hereford. Well done, Colin – we wish you great success with it.

Thanks to Vicky Clarke and Niall Gibney for the food and decorations!

Today, we had a very special guest to lunch: Dame Lorna Muirhead, Lord Lieutenant of Merseyside (who, we discovered, loves poetry – she calls it her “oxygen”).

From left to right: (Lady) Jen, (Duchess) Jane, (actually a) Dame Lorna, (Sir) Mark, (Lord) Lee

Chris, our Business Manager, had to be sent a way from lunch this week – Dame Lorna’s a retired midwife, previously the President of the Royal College of Midwives – and we felt him too young and innocent to be able to deal with such things.

The rest of us had a fantastic time with Dame Lorna, she’s full of energy and told us all about the wonderful and inspiring aspects her job entails. One of these is that she is the Colonel of her own regiment (the boys are queueing up to carry her sword)! The boys who were present coped well, although they did seem to be left a little stunned by the end…

Uhhh... errmmm...

Cheers!

Chris

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I have just come back from one of our much loved Food for Thought events and have enjoyed privilege of yet another stimulating couple of hours of lively debate and discussion! Today’s selected short story was Tobias Wolff’s ‘Powder’, which was read along side Elizabeth Jennings‘ moving poem ‘Father to Son’ and Vernon Scannell‘s challenging piece ‘Incendiary’.

What I found most impressive about ‘Powder’ was its creation of a new found movement of discovery within such a short space of time; that is, a short space of time not only within the form of the story, but rather the actual narrative moment of one morning in the life of a somewhat estranged son and his father on Christmas Eve. The son thinks that he knows all there is to know about his father, and appears wearied and tired by what he does know: his is a father who, for all his good intentions, seems to be unable to stop himself from getting caught up in his own enthusiasm for reckless adventure often at the expense of his other commitments which have to do with the ordinary responsibilities and routines of everyday life for parents, children, and the family. Although what is really wonderful about the story is that the son, when compelled to follow his father in a hazardous drive through snow and blizzard, comes to realise a much needed sense of fun and adventure in himself as he rediscovers his father as someone who he can look up to and admire because, rather than in spite of, his “rumpled” nature. The best bit of the day for me was when a lady on my table said that the story had given her hope that relationships between father and son, when strained and paralysed by those awful and seemingly impenetrable silences, do not have to stay that way and can, actually, change.
By Clare Williams

Tobias Wolff, author of ‘Powder’, the story that formed part of today’s reading for Food for Thought, is one of the world’s finest contemporary short fiction writers. From his collection The Night in Question, it tells the tale of a boy’s perception of his father and the changing dynamic of their relationship, or at least the son’s change of attitude. In only five pages and in what is essentially only a ‘drive home’, Wolff portrays an essentially irresponsible and arrogant man, whose incautious behaviour means that he and his son nearly miss making it home for Christmas. Yet as the story progresses, the son begins to accept his father’s behaviour , “I stopped moping and began to enjoy myself”, realising that accepting the circumstance and his father for who he is leads him to acknowledge, “I actually trusted him.” It was remarkable how may different feelings this story prompted in the readers that were sat at the table with me: some believed there was an impending disaster as the father and son drove through the dense snow; some drew on resonances with Wolff’s own memoirs; others were quick to highlight aspects of the relationship between father and son in relation to their own experiences, as parent or as child.

The blankets of white snow and the portrayal of silent moments in the story were echoed in Elizabeth Jenning’s poem ‘Father to Son’, “I know/ Nothing of him”. This poem, which speaks of the lack of understanding between parent and child, identifies how you can yearn to feel a connection to someone but lack the understanding to be able to, “We each put out an empty hand,/ Longing for something to forgive”. Vernon Scannell’s ‘Incendiary’ seemed antithetical in tone to the other texts as it was provocative and volatile, “that one small boy should set/ The sky on fire and choke the stars”. However there is a presiding sense of poignancy towards the poem’s end, “would have been content with one warm kiss/ Had there been anyone to offer this”, that puts the onus on each one of us to ensure that children do not grow up without being shown love. Each of the texts provided a different attitude towards relationships and each person around the table had their own unique insights: it is at events like this that words on the page really do come to life, bringing our own experiences and thoughts to what’s written in front of us and willing to share them with others.
By Jen Tomkins

We sat down to sandwiches, large slices of cake and three pieces of work for discussion: ‘Powder’, a short story by the American writer Tobias Wolff that describes a father and son relationship in which the boy has taken on the role of adult as if to protect himself from his father’s irresponsibility and chaotic lifestyle. ‘Father to Son’, a poem by Elizabeth Jennings which explores a situation in which there is no understanding, or common ground, between father and son and another poem ‘Incendiary’ by Vernon Scannell in which a small boy with no parental love or authority causes massive damage to property.

We began, spontaneously with Elizabeth Jennings’ poem. Everyone found it bleak but knew it to be possible and real:

We speak like strangers, there’s no sign
Of understanding in the air.
This child is built to my design
Yet what he loves I cannot share.

It was the sheer distance between the two with ‘no sign’ of ever being able to close that made it so sad and the incomprehensibilty of how this most fundamental relationship could become so sterile. We spent at least twenty five minutes exploring the complextity of the situation of the poem which ends without resolution:

We each put out an empty hand,
Longing for something to forgive.

Turning to ‘Powder’, we all felt we needed to look for something positive in what seemed to be another broken down relationship between father and son. It is a great and brilliantly written account of a brief moment when, against all odds, the son is able to let go of built up fear and resentment and allow himself to feel pride, trust and love for his Dad.

My father was driving. My father in his forty-eighth year, rumpled, kind, bankrupt of honour, flushed with certainty. He was a great driver. All persuasion and no coercion. Such subtlety at the wheel, such tactful pedalwork. I actually trusted him.

The story is only five pages long, but packed with thought and feeling. Much food for thought and discussion. Unfortunately, after this, we didn’t have room for ‘Incendiary’ and left the table feeling fuller than sandwiches and cake alone could account for.
By Angela Macmillan

We spent much of our discussion time thinking about the relationship between the father and son in the short story ‘Powder’. We were all interested in their individual characters, which caused us to sympathise with both of them at different moments in the story. We talked a lot about the apparent ‘distance’ between the them, how the fact that they are very different personalities effects their relationship as much as the damage that has been done through the lack of trust the boy has in his father and the broken promises he remembers. This idea is echoed in the Elizabeth Jennings poem, ‘Father to Son’ where the two “speak like strangers” yet appear to be separated through their difference from each other, “what he loves I cannot share”, rather than a specific, identifiable disagreement. This problem seems much deeper and less temporary somehow, as the aching “Longing for something to forgive” in the final line crushes the hope that talks of “shaping from sorrow a new love” in the previous stanza.
By Katie Peters

After covering writers’ block, aids to overcoming writers’ block (wine helps, apparently), the stature of Martin Amis and how to best keep crows off your land (Sting cds, particularily shiny and about all they’re good for), our conversation turned to poetry. In particular, the poetry of punk poet John Cooper Clarke. Enter Cathy Hopkins, author and wife of Steve. “Cathy, meet Jen, and please read us some of John Cooper Clarke’s poetry”, requests Steve. I had barely had a chance to say hello and Cathy hadn’t even sat down before she was reciting with great gusto poem after poem of Cooper Clarke’s. The three of us were laughing away, I was being educated about a poet who I knew little about (not being from that generation and all) and I felt overwhelmed at the fervour people to have to share poetry they love. I hold the Romantic poets in the highest esteem (you may have noticed from my choice of poems on this blog), so I wasn’t entirely sure that this was going to be quite my thing. Yet to hear words come to life and be conveyed so enthusiastically, I was reassured that the spirit of poetry can reach us in many ways. It proved to me that the most fantastic way to experience poetry is to have it read aloud by someone who feels a passion about it and wants to share it, whether that is the poet themselves or otherwise.

I didn’t expect my last emotion when leaving the festival to be one of sadness. I thought that relief would have been what I felt: finally, a day off ahead. It wasn’t, I wanted it to continue. The atmosphere of the Writers’ Room on Sunday evening was tinged with melancholy as people said goodbye to old friends and new, the coffee pots and cake stands were taken away, journalists packing up their computers and pens, organisers revelled in the success of their event but realised that it was all over as they sat together around tables. It has been a remarkable experience, in which I have met many inspirational and talented people, had my mind opened to new ideas and opinions, and of course, enjoyed a fantastic selection of delectable cakes. I left the Writers’ Room completely overwhelmed by the encounters of the last ten days, a sense of poignancy pervading my mind as I thought, this is it now, back to reality. I looked around to spot one last table of people gathering: A. C. Grayling, Sarah Smythe (festival Director) Carlos Acosta, Sophie Dahl, Robert Winston, Jamie Cullum and Howard Jacobson, eating their dinner and sharing in relaxed chatter. Now, where else could you see that?

Posted by Jen Tomkins

After covering writers’ block, aids to overcoming writers’ block (wine helps, apparently), the stature of Martin Amis and how to best keep crows off your land (Sting cds, particularily shiny and about all they’re good for), our conversation turned to poetry. In particular, the poetry of punk poet John Cooper Clarke. Enter Cathy Hopkins, author and wife of Steve. “Cathy, meet Jen, and please read us some of John Cooper Clarke’s poetry”, requests Steve. I had barely had a chance to say hello and Cathy hadn’t even sat down before she was reciting with great gusto poem after poem of Cooper Clarke’s. The three of us were laughing away, I was being educated about a poet who I knew little about (not being from that generation and all) and I felt overwhelmed at the fervour people to have to share poetry they love. I hold the Romantic poets in the highest esteem (you may have noticed from my choice of poems on this blog), so I wasn’t entirely sure that this was going to be quite my thing. Yet to hear words come to life and be conveyed so enthusiastically, I was reassured that the spirit of poetry can reach us in many ways. It proved to me that the most fantastic way to experience poetry is to have it read aloud by someone who feels a passion about it and wants to share it, whether that is the poet themselves or otherwise.

I didn’t expect my last emotion when leaving the festival to be one of sadness. I thought that relief would have been what I felt: finally, a day off ahead. It wasn’t, I wanted it to continue. The atmosphere of the Writers’ Room on Sunday evening was tinged with melancholy as people said goodbye to old friends and new, the coffee pots and cake stands were taken away, journalists packing up their computers and pens, organisers revelled in the success of their event but realised that it was all over as they sat together around tables. It has been a remarkable experience, in which I have met many inspirational and talented people, had my mind opened to new ideas and opinions, and of course, enjoyed a fantastic selection of delectable cakes. I left the Writers’ Room completely overwhelmed by the encounters of the last ten days, a sense of poignancy pervading my mind as I thought, this is it now, back to reality. I looked around to spot one last table of people gathering: A. C. Grayling, Sarah Smythe (festival Director) Carlos Acosta, Sophie Dahl, Robert Winston, Jamie Cullum and Howard Jacobson, eating their dinner and sharing in relaxed chatter. Now, where else could you see that?

Posted by Jen Tomkins

It hasn’t gone smoothly today. Computer problems this morning (I am, as they say, not technologically-minded), not being able to get the tickets that I initially wanted (McEwan sold out, Alex James cancelled), no cake left in the Writers’ Room. Problem after problem. Time to put Plan B into operation. Plan B meant that I was free to do as I pleased until 1pm, at which point I went to see Erica Wagner (Literary Editor of The Times) and Nick Hennessey (storyteller and singer). In a unique ‘Storytelling’ event, Wagner read from her debut novel Seizure and Hennessey sang ballads from his new album A Rare Hunger, a fascinating combination of the spoken and sung, the contemporary and the traditional, taking you on an emotional journey. It was completely different from anything I have experienced at the festival this year; not people talking about their work but performing it, letting the words speak for themselves.

Before I went to see this event though, I was in the Writers’ Room having lunch. Which was a fairly calm and quiet affair. Until that is, I got in the way. Sitting at a table talking reading the paper, with my back to the room, I became aware of a couple of men standing behind me. I turned around and attempted to shuffle my chair around but the gentleman who was trying to get his rucksack from under my table (I hadn’t noticed that before, which worries me as I feel I now have a duty to be vigilant around rucksacks) was adamant that I shouldn’t move. Fine, up until a couple of others were now with this gentleman and I was sitting with my brie and grapes at this table in the shadow of four men. Time to move to the other side of the table. As I do, I get more “Oh, no, please don’t worry” comments but well-mannered as I like to think I am, I say “It really doesn’t matter, honestly, I’m just getting in your way.” Who is it standing behind me but James May, who is obviously rather concerned about interrupting my lunch. Sitting down opposite me he asks, “Is there anything else I can do to ruin your day?”, to which I respond, “Well, maybe but I’m sure you won’t”, “Is there anything I can get you?”, he then says, “Of course not, it’s fine, honestly!” (silly polite me, I could have at least asked him to pass me a cup of coffee but nothing was being ruined really, it was all rather entertaining). There was then a steady stream of journalists and fans after interviews, signatures, photos. Pen, anyone? Jen to the rescue. “Thanks, I promise not to run off with it, that would surely ruin your day.” He certainly draws a crowd, his book signing lasted for an hour and forty minutes and we were then surrounded by a bevy of people. I finished off my lunch and then got up to leave, winding my way through past the BBC journalist, at which point I felt a hand on my arm. “Excuse me”, it was James, “I’m really terribly sorry for ruining your lunch. Do take care.” It’s good to know that manners still exist.

Posted by Jen Tomkins

The man was children’s author Morris Gleitzman, an Australian writer unafraid to bring up some controversial issues in his literature. In Boy Overboard Gleitzman charts the story of a refugee from Afghanistan seeking asylum in Australia but it does not turn out to be the idyll he imagined. The Australian government has been heavily criticised for opening scores of detention centres for immigrants and PM John Howard’s reaction to Boy Overboard was, “why can’t Gleitzman leave children to their innocence”, to which Gleitzman said to me, “Can you believe that, from the man that has locked up thousands of these children?” No. Or actually, I think I can.

The overriding theme of this festival for me so far has been the extent of the media’s manipulative power, blending fact and fiction to create so much grey area that the ‘truth’ seems a genuine impossibility to discover. The festival’s theme, ‘What does change mean to us?’ is emerging as an unanswerable question: who is this ‘us’ anyway, shouldn’t that be ‘me’? As advancements in technology and communications further infiltrate our existence, we are less and less able to disengage from that world to our real world. Call me pessimistic, but in a world dominated by the media and one where news is entertainment, entertainment is news, there seems no way out. There is an inherent contradiction in us all: we want integrity but yearn after sensationalism, we hate the paparazzi for infringing a celebrity’s privacy but we will buy the newspapers nonetheless.

Of course, this brings me back to thinking about issues raised in Iannucci and Kunzru’s talks over the last few days: what is real and what is surreal? We think that the news is real but the ‘news’ is chosen for us and reported in such a way that is deemed appropriate, we think that surrealist art is just that, surreal but is it not just another representation of reality, like the news? At least a reality, we all have our own. I shan’t get started; I could go on for hours.

‘Question, Debate, Discover, Engage, Enjoy’: Cheltenham Literature Festival is delivering what it promised in its promotional material. I may have been mistaken for one of the festival’s guest speakers (by one of the festival’s guest speakers) but I feel my identity has slipped further out of my reach after absorbing the disquieting notions that have been explored during the last few days. Iannucci picked Wallace Stevens’ ‘Six Significant Landscapes’ as one of his most admired poems on Sunday evening, explaining, “I didn’t understand it as an undergraduate, I still don’t understand it but it sounds great and the images are fantastic.” I am now experiencing my life as if it were a Wallace Stevens poem, simultaneously knowing what’s going on and not having a bloody clue!

From ‘Six Significant Landscapes’

Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses—
As, for example, the ellipse of the halfmoon—
Rationalists would wear sombreros.

1955

Posted by Jen Tomkins