Henry James visit to California

James’ The American Scene (1907) was to have an additional chapter, entitled “California” which was never written, but Philip Horne in the  9-21-18 issue of the TLS has found enough in letters and articles to provide what he believes to be the overview of what that chapter would have consisted of.  James is quoted from a letter, “California . . . has completely bowled me over – such a delicious difference from the rest of the U.S. do I find in it.  (I speak of course all of nature and climate, fruits and flowers; for there is absolutely nothing else, and the sense of the shining social and human inane is utter.)  The days have been mostly here of heavenly beauty, and the flowers, the wild flowers just now in particular, which fairly rage, with radiance, over the land, are worthy of some purer planet than this.  I live on oranges and olives, fresh from the tree, and I lie awake nights to listen, on purpose, to the languid lisp of the Pacific, which my windows overhang . . .”

I’m reminded of an earlier conversation in regard to how we should expect to enjoy retirement by (especially) reading the books we never got around to reading before we retired.  In my case I have already read all the books I wanted to read, before I retired.  Every book I wanted to read, I read (all of James’ novels, for example).  Of course there are many books I haven’t read, but they aren’t books I wanted to read. 

Someone may ask, “did you read X?”  And I may not have, but I probably considered him (or her) at one time and decided not to.  I’m not saying that my decisions were the best.  I’ve had occasion to read novelists that in the past I rejected and discovered later on that I enjoyed, but breaking through my initial prejudice was (is) difficult.

I have created list-like goals in recent years – to read criticisms and biographies, and then inspired by them to read (or reread) some of the poetry I may have unjustly failed to appreciate, but I have in most of these cases continued the neglect them.  My current effort is in regard to Browning.  I like a lot of his poetry, most of what appeared in his Men and Women (1855), for example, but I’ve decided to tackle Sordello, and then if that goes well to have another go at The Ring and the Book.  

I do regularly read the TLS, The London Review of Books, and The New York Review of Books, and regularly buy books that strike me as interesting.  They may be histories, biographies, works of criticisms, or the occasional novel, but my list of books to be read in retirement, remains blank.  ;-) 

English Literature after great wars

Ian Jack interests me.  In his English Literature, 1815-1832, he wrote, “When Wellington defeated Napoleon in 1815 England was already beginning to suffer from the reaction that seems inevitable after a great war.”  He goes on to say that Sir Walter Scott, with his swash-buckling heroes was a great favorite in England during the war, but afterwards, the English poetry reader turned to the cynical Pilgrimage of Childe Harold of Byron. 

More recently I began looking into Ian Jack’s Augustan Satire, Intention and Idiom in English Poetry, 1660-1750.  Jack wrote this book in 1952 (his English Literature 1815-1832 was written in 1963), but he could very well have said something similar about his Augustan Satire, i.e., that England in the period after 1660 was suffering “from the reaction” that occurred after its Civil War.  The period from 1660 on up to perhaps 1715 or so was considered the “Restoration.”  Cromwell had died and the Monarchy was restored and so the English poetry-reader read cynical Restoration poetry, Augustan Satire.  

In the preface to his Augustan Satire, Jack thanks those who helped him during the writing of his book.  He mentions, “Professor Rosamond Tuve encouraged me during one of those periods of depression that are the student’s occupational disease . . .”  I’ve had occasion to read a bit about “depression,” especially “manic depression,” now referred to by the less descriptive term “bi-polar disorder.”   Robert Lowell had an extreme case of Manic Depression, but Depression by itself is a different disorder.  The clinically depressed doesn’t get a manic phase.  I wonder what sort of depression Jack had. 

And then, leaving Jack, I wonder about American literature after our various wars.  I can’t bring anything substantial to mind – just the impression that these writings, including the writings after the Vietnam war, aside from their political nature (and political rants don’t usually count as literature), seem largely befuddled. 

Last Man Standing (9-18-18)

I feel like the last man standing.  Everyone anywhere near my age is either sick or dying.  I do better mentally (the dogs probably feel the same way) when I can hike more regularly.  If future mornings are no worse than yesterday then we can get used to hiking for 90 minutes or so before it gets uncomfortably hot.  Doing much of it in soft sand is a pretty good workout. 

Back at home I’ve been working out with more intensity.  I’ve gained a bit of strength which made the hike yesterday easier from a physical standpoint. 

I do tend to avoid doctors’ and vets offices as the places where one or one’s furry friends are most likely to contract diseases.  My doctor whom I haven’t seen in 5 years would disagree with me, but I’ll bet I’m in better shape than he is. 

Duffy and Jessica are in good shape.  Ben for the most part is as well, but I got him at age three with some emotional baggage.  When upset from having a bad dream (my guess), he leans up against me wherever I go. 

Waking

   

    Night gave way to day
    As we lay here dreaming.
    Raising my head to check
    The time I looked about,
    While all the dogs still
    Slept, and out the window
    At the rising light,

    Trees, the mountains
    And everything else that
    Became visible.  A little
    Later Jessica followed me
    Downstairs.  We went out
    Back to take a closer look
    At what the morning held.

    Why is it on such mornings
    A guileless suggestion
    Will epitomize political
    Deceit, and cringing, faddish
    Twitters?  A mourning dove
    Begins a lament.  A dog in the
    Next yard emits a single bark.

Anaesthesiology

   

    Counting back, 100, 99, 98,
    My stepfather over-ruled my
    Mother and bought me a Monarch
    Bike; so at 12 I could ride for
    The first time free of
    Her oversight where counting
    Forward was not an option.

    Two years later he
    Encouraged a philosophy
    Student and fellow church
    Member to talk me
    Into a better view of the world.
    Instead I told him the
    Multitudes of my thinking.

    Ninety-five, ninety-four –
    I woke hearing an antagonist
    Daring me to apply this furious
    Energy to mankind’s good.
    So remembering only that from
    My nightmare, I took
    Up the challenge

    Of his presuppositions.  I made
    A point to stop there and
    Wait.  Let whoever keeps
    Track go ahead.  I’m weary
    Of the frenetic nights of turmoil --
    Rewriting the scripts of every
    Remembered word and deed

    As though I’d have a chance
    In another life to do it
    Right, or the courage
    To step out in the sureness
    Of a cadence-count
    Drill instructor who
    Has no double mind.

    For this little while
    My mind still reeks of
    Multivariate forces forming
    Webs too bedraggled
    To break apart and form a simple
    Life; so if that’s all there is it will
    End in peace.  If not, then war