And our Covid tests have come up Negative.
My cold persists, but is now a full on cold more than a cough, and was greatly helped by a mug of lemsip this morning.
I have been re-reading the biography of Jean Rhys: I used to live here once by Miranda Seymour. Interesting, and very pro Jean, who was a great writer, a stunning writer, every word alive on the page, but who could be a difficult person, full of bitterness and anger - and also a person of great charm according to many who knew her.
She was certainly lovely to look at, even in her old age, and let me say again - Could she write! She, Lewis Carroll, George Orwell, Shirley Jackson and Agatha Christie are great inspirations for me. If only I could produce a book that was a perfect blend of all of them... but my Muse seems to be in retirement at the moment. And I think that would stretch any Muse anyway.
If you went by Jean's fiction you would have thought she was neglected and abandoned all her life, yet if you look at the bios you will see she was always cared for a succession of people - often devoted men, including of course her three husbands. Her charm, her talent and her fragility seemed to draw help to her when she needed it, which she often did.
My cold persists, but is now a full on cold more than a cough, and was greatly helped by a mug of lemsip this morning.
I have been re-reading the biography of Jean Rhys: I used to live here once by Miranda Seymour. Interesting, and very pro Jean, who was a great writer, a stunning writer, every word alive on the page, but who could be a difficult person, full of bitterness and anger - and also a person of great charm according to many who knew her.
She was certainly lovely to look at, even in her old age, and let me say again - Could she write! She, Lewis Carroll, George Orwell, Shirley Jackson and Agatha Christie are great inspirations for me. If only I could produce a book that was a perfect blend of all of them... but my Muse seems to be in retirement at the moment. And I think that would stretch any Muse anyway.
If you went by Jean's fiction you would have thought she was neglected and abandoned all her life, yet if you look at the bios you will see she was always cared for a succession of people - often devoted men, including of course her three husbands. Her charm, her talent and her fragility seemed to draw help to her when she needed it, which she often did.
Her life was no picnic.
We are living in a tragedy and have been since the loss of Eden, and it is all futile in the end unless... but I will return to that "unless" at the end of the blog.
Anyway, the bio has inspired this blog as Jean's anger finally landed her in prison - five days in Holloway after she attacked one of her tenants, twice.
Her biographer reported that she was treated with understanding in prison and got on with the other prisoners. But even a few days there filled her with horror. If you read anyone's account of our prison systems, you will likely be horrified too.
Anyway, this is a para from the bio:
"It was the misery that got under Rhys's skin during her stay at Holloway. 'But Oh Lord why wasn't the place bombed?' she wrote that autumn to Peggy Kirkaldy: 'If you could see the unfortunate prisoners crawling about like half-dead flies you'd understand how I feel. I did think about the Suffragettes. Result of all their sacrifices? The woman doctor!!! Really human effort is futile.'"
Prison doctors can be on the harsh side, if I am to judge from the Dalrymple columns of long ago in The Spectator, but in fairness, this woman may not have been so bad. Jean was prone to take violent dislikes, as well as violent likes. But Jean's conclusion was the right one.
We cannot put things right. And it's not as if we haven't tried. But everything we have tried has failed.
And that also put me in mind of this rather charming Guiterman poem:
On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness
by Arthur Guiterman
The tusks that clashed in might brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.
The sword of Charlemagne the just
is feric oxide, known as rust.
The grizzly bear whose potent hug
Was feared by all, is now a rug.
Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf
And I don't feel too well myself.
I came across this poem in "Poem for the Day, One with a Foreword by Wendy Cope. It is an excellent anthology.
The Creator of language, Jehovah, the God of Abraham, said it best of all, when he inspired King Solomon to write these words: "I saw all the works that were done under the sun, And look! everything was futile, a chasing after the wind" - Ecclesiastes 1:14
But Ecclesiastes ends on this positive note: "The conclusion of the matter, everything having been heard is: Fear the true God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole obligation of man..."
Doing so can make us happy even now, and give a meaning and a purpose and a hope that nothing else can. I hope that Jean Rhys will know that one day.
We are living in a tragedy and have been since the loss of Eden, and it is all futile in the end unless... but I will return to that "unless" at the end of the blog.
Anyway, the bio has inspired this blog as Jean's anger finally landed her in prison - five days in Holloway after she attacked one of her tenants, twice.
Her biographer reported that she was treated with understanding in prison and got on with the other prisoners. But even a few days there filled her with horror. If you read anyone's account of our prison systems, you will likely be horrified too.
Anyway, this is a para from the bio:
"It was the misery that got under Rhys's skin during her stay at Holloway. 'But Oh Lord why wasn't the place bombed?' she wrote that autumn to Peggy Kirkaldy: 'If you could see the unfortunate prisoners crawling about like half-dead flies you'd understand how I feel. I did think about the Suffragettes. Result of all their sacrifices? The woman doctor!!! Really human effort is futile.'"
Prison doctors can be on the harsh side, if I am to judge from the Dalrymple columns of long ago in The Spectator, but in fairness, this woman may not have been so bad. Jean was prone to take violent dislikes, as well as violent likes. But Jean's conclusion was the right one.
We cannot put things right. And it's not as if we haven't tried. But everything we have tried has failed.
And that also put me in mind of this rather charming Guiterman poem:
On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness
by Arthur Guiterman
The tusks that clashed in might brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.
The sword of Charlemagne the just
is feric oxide, known as rust.
The grizzly bear whose potent hug
Was feared by all, is now a rug.
Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf
And I don't feel too well myself.
I came across this poem in "Poem for the Day, One with a Foreword by Wendy Cope. It is an excellent anthology.
The Creator of language, Jehovah, the God of Abraham, said it best of all, when he inspired King Solomon to write these words: "I saw all the works that were done under the sun, And look! everything was futile, a chasing after the wind" - Ecclesiastes 1:14
But Ecclesiastes ends on this positive note: "The conclusion of the matter, everything having been heard is: Fear the true God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole obligation of man..."
Doing so can make us happy even now, and give a meaning and a purpose and a hope that nothing else can. I hope that Jean Rhys will know that one day.
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