Thursday, June 14, 2012

Bedside Books



Bronwyn calls it the dipping shelf. It's the one where you keep books you think might continue to be entertaining even though you've already read them - perhaps more than once. It's also the place for encyclopedias, compendiums of recondite information, your favourite poets ...

As you'll see from the picture above, mine does seem to have got a bit out of hand.

It's rather a funny story, actually. It was during one of our periodic inorganic collections. I was cruising down Hastings Rd, keeping one eye open for bookshelves (you never know when you mightn't see the perfect set of shelves, all wood, being thrown out by some retiree or itinerant yuppie - you don't want to wait till after the first rainstorm, though). And there it was!

Not wood, admittedly. Or even really a bookcase. It's actually some kind of corner unit from a kitchen, I suspect - but it did have shelves, and it looked as if it might just squeeze into one corner of the bedroom. "It's not coming with us when we move," said Bronwyn, but - with that proviso - she did allow me to install this ugly piece of tat next to my side of the bed.

Just as well, really. It was a devil to squeeze the thing into the car, and I wasn't exactly relishing having to drive back and dump it where it came from in the first place.



This is the 300th post on my blog. I put up my first entry on June 14, 2006, and now, six years later, I've finally reached 300. That's only an average of 50 a year, admittedly, but some of them are quite sizeable. There are certainly hundred of thousands of words here, indexed as best I can in the sidebar opposite.

So what to write about? I certainly don't intend to confine myself to posts about - or vaguely linked to - my book collection (indexed at A Gentle Madness) for the rest of time, but it has been quite a nice way of acknowledging debts to my favourite authors and books.

It did seem to make sense, then, to talk about the books most immediately to hand: the dipping shelf, your last refuge when you've done with the latest crop of library books and all the other books-in-progress have been finished or abandoned ...

  1. Ritsema, Rudolf, & Stephen Karcher, trans. I-Ching: The Classic Chinese Oracle of Change. The First Complete Translation with Concordance. 1994. Shaftesbury, Dorset: Element Books Ltd., 1995.

  2. The Holy Qur-ān: English Translation of the Meanings and Commentary. Ed. Mushaf Al-Madinah An-Nabawiyah. Trans. Abdullah Yusuf Ali et al. Saudi Arabia: King Fahd Holy Qur-ān Printing Complex, A.H. 1411 [= 1991].

  3. Ash, Russell, & Brian Lake. Bizarre Books. London: Macmillan, 1985.

  4. Cavafy, C. P. Collected Poems. Trans. Daniel Mendelsohn. 2009. A Borzoi Book. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2010.

  5. Cavafy, C. P. The Unfinished Poems: The First English Translation. Based on the Greek Edition of Renata Lavagnini. Trans. Daniel Mendelsohn. A Borzoi Book. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009.

  6. de la Mare, Walter, ed. Come Hither: A Family Treasury of Best-Loved Rhymes and Poems for Children. 1923. Decorations by Warren Chappell. New York: Avenel Books, 1990.

  7. Plato. The Collected Dialogues of Plato, Including the Letters. Ed. Edith Hamilton & Huntington Cairns. Bollingen Series LXXI. 1961. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1971.

  8. Greenblatt, Stephen, & Walter Cohen, Jean E. Howard & Katharine Eisaman Maus, ed. The Norton Shakespeare: Based on the Oxford Edition. Ed. Stanley Wells, Gary Taylor, John Jowett & William Montgomery. 1986 & 1988. With an Essay on the Shakespearean Stage by Andrew Gurr. New York & London: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1997.

  9. Thomas, Edward. The Annotated Collected Poems. Ed. Edna Longley. 2008. Highgreen, Tarset, Northumberland: Bloodaxe Books Ltd., 2011.

  10. Lovecraft, H. P. Tales. Ed. Peter Straub. The Library of America, 155. New York: Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., 2005.

  11. Carey, John, ed. The Faber Book of Reportage. 1987. London: Faber, 1990.

  12. Yeats, W. B., ed. Fairy & Folk Tales of Ireland [Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry & Irish Fairy Tales]. 1888 & 1892. Foreword by Kathleen Raine. 1973. List of Sources by Mary Helen Thuente. 1977. Picador. London: Pan Books Ltd., 1979.

  13. Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, ed. The Oxford Book of English Verse. 1900. New Edition 1250-1918. 1939. Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1948.

  14. Bridges, Robert, ed. Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins. 1918. Second Edition With an Appendix of Additional Notes, and a Critical Introduction by Charles Williams. 1930. The Oxford Bookshelf. 1937. London: Oxford University Press, 1941.

  15. James, M. R. The Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James. 1931. Pocket Edition. 1942. London: Edward Arnold (Publishers) Ltd., 1964.


You don't have to tell me that this looks like a pretty odd amalgam of classics and eccentrics. Having Plato and Shakespeare beside you makes sense, I guess - just in case you need a bit of enlightenment - even the Koran and the I-Ching. But H. P. Lovecraft? M. R. James? I make no apology for the ghost stories, I'm afraid. Nor do I think that I have to over-explain the poetry anthologies (Come Hither and the Oxford Book of English Verse: great for browsing, both of them).

I love Edward Thomas's poetry. My relations with Gerard Manley Hopkins are a bit more vexed, but it's a very nice old copy - with annotations by Maurice Duggan, strangely enough. Cavafy is also a perennial favourite. This may not be the most elegant translation of his poems (I have several), but it's definitely the most complete and well-annotated.

What else? I've always enjoyed reading folktales, and this omnibus edition of Irish stories by W. B. Yeats is particularly good. As for the Faber Book of Reportage, the idea of collecting the best eye-witness account of the great events of history (from the destruction of Pompeii to the London blitz) makes for a book too concentrated to be read straight through, but perfect for picking up on a rainy evening.

As for Bizarre Books, "we did it for the money and a good laugh," as the authors bashfully explain. It's not a lofty book, certainly, but it does have its uses (as Messrs Ash and Lake remark of Octogenarian Teetotallers: "Not so much a book as a dreadful warning ...")



Storage space for books just isn't easy to come by anymore. Bronwyn's been reduced to keeping most of her art catalogues in boxes behind the sofa, and I find myself shoving more and more of my own new accessions in on top of the existing ones. Hence the convention in these listings of a small "", denoting "on top of" ...

  1. Bashō, Matsuo. Narrow Road to the Interior and Other Writings. Trans. Sam Hamill. Boston: Shambhala, 2000.

  2. Bashō, Matsuo. The Complete Haiku. Trans. Jane Reichhold. Illustrated by Shiro Tsujimura. Tokyo: Kodansha International, 2008.

  3. Heller-Roazen, Daniel, ed. The Arabian Nights. The Husain Haddaway Translation Based on the Text Edited by Muhsin Mahdi: Contexts, Criticism. 1990 & 1995. A Norton Critical Edition. New York & London: W. W. Norton & Company, 2010.

  4. Briggs, Katharine M., ed. A Dictionary of British Folk-Tales in the English Language, Incorporating the F. J. Norton Collection. Part A: Folk Narratives. 1970. London & New York: Routledge, 2003.

  5. Briggs, Katharine M., ed. A Dictionary of British Folk-Tales in the English Language, Incorporating the F. J. Norton Collection. Part B: Folk Legends. 1970. London & New York: Routledge, 2001.

  6. Burton, Robert. The Anatomy of Melancholy. 1621. Ed. Holbrook Jackson. Everyman’s Library. 1932. London & Toronto: J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd., 1977.

  7. Carver, Raymond. All of Us: The Collected Poems. Ed. William L. Stull. Introduction by Tess Gallagher. 1996. London: The Harvill Press, 1997.

  8. Carver, Raymond. Collected Stories. Ed. William L. Stull & Maureen P. Carroll. The Library of America, 195. New York: Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., 2009.

  9. D’Israeli, Isaac. Curiosities of Literature. 1791-3, 1823. London: George Routledge & Co., n.d.

  10. D'Israeli, Isaac. Amenities of Literature: Consisting of Sketches and Characters of English Literature. A New Edition. 1841. Ed. by His Son, The Right Hon B. Disraeli, Chancellor of Her Majesty's Exchequer. 2 vols. London: Routledge, Warnes & Routledge, 1859.

  11. Fort, Charles. The Books of Charles Fort: The Book of the Damned; New Lands; Lo!; Wild Talents. 1919, 1923, 1931 & 1932. Introduction by Tiffany Thayer. 1941. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1959




  12. Fitzgerald, Edward, trans. Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. Ed. Reynold Alleyne Nicholson. 1909. London: A. & C. Black., 1973.

  13. Hass, Robert, ed. & trans. The Essential Haiku: Versions of Bashō, Buson, and Issa. Ecco. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1994.


These are the books I keep roughly at eye-height. They're arranged (more or less) alphabetically, but they are, otherwise, madly eclectic. The books of Bashō's haiku and travel journals shouldn't require too much justification - nor should that little volume of Fitzgerald's translation of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. As for the four-volumes-in-two of Kathleen Briggs's Dictionary of British Folk-Tales, all I can say is that if you've never encountered this work, you've missed a treat.

It can't really be read, but it can be consulted and pored over. The same is true of Isaac D'Israeli's collections of "curiosities" from the literary annals. Raymond Carver might seem rather out of place, but his Collected Poems (in particular) is one of my all-time favourite bedside books: unpretentious, elegant, perfect.

The Arabian Nights? Well, if you've looked at this blog at all, you'll have gathered that that's one of my principal obsessions (to the extent that I had to siphon off the materials into another whole site, Scheherazade's Web). This is a nice little collection for everyday purposes. The Anatomy of Melancholy? The only book that could get Dr Samuel Johnson out of bed before midday (according to him): a real friend in times of trial, and a mine of recondite detail on virtually anything antiquarian you can think of. Charles Fort? Almost unreadable in bulk, despite the fascination of its contents, but not a bad book for reading a few pages of before nodding off ... If you like "weird phenomena" as much as I do, that is.



I guess it's a bit wicked of me to tuck the Greek Dramatists in around the corner, so they can't be extricated without pulling out other books. Whatever. Sue me. I like the idea of reading them very much, but in practise I find plays rather uphill work. I don't have the sort of imagination which can envisage the action going on in front of me. It's a beautiful set of books, though.

As for Nabokov, I guess I regard him as a kind of literary Stanley Kubrick. I don't really enjoy Kubrick's films all that much: so self-conscious and studied. But the more you examine and think about every scene and effect, the more you can learn from them. The great thing about Kubrick is that nothing is there by chance. After watching a Kubrick movie - even such comparatively slight ones as The Shining or Full Metal Jacket - it can be quite dislocating to look at the work of virtually any other director: so many lazy scenes, cars pulling up to curbs, people walking vaguely down corridors ... you miss the almost insane precision of his eye.

That's Nabokov for me. My favourite of his books is Pale Fire, but all of them have that same quality of having been completely thought through. He's a genius, yes. Not a great moralist, as Brian Boyd appears to believe, and as prone to error as any other artist - especially that unfortunate last novel Look at the Harlequins - but a writer's writer nonetheless. Every page and every sentence is a kind of masterclass for other scribblers, when that's what you know you need.

  1. The Complete Greek Tragedies. Volume 1: Aeschylus. Ed. David Grene & Richmond Lattimore. Trans. Richmond Lattimore, Seth G. Bernadete & David Grene. 1942, 1953 & 1956. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1959.

  2. The Complete Greek Tragedies. Volume 2: Sophocles. Ed. David Grene & Richmond Lattimore. Trans. David Grene, Robert Fitzgerald, Elizabeth Wyckoff, John Moore & Michael Jameson. 1941, 1942, 1954, 1957 & 1959. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1960.

  3. The Complete Greek Tragedies. Volume 3: Euripides. Ed. David Grene & Richmond Lattimore. Trans. Richmond Lattimore, Rex Warner, Ralph Gladstone, David Grene, William Arrowsmith, Witter Bynner & John Frederick Nims. 1942, 1944, 1955, 1956 & 1959. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1960.

  4. Nabokov, Vladimir. Novels and Memoirs 1941-1951: The Real Life of Sebastian Knight / Bend Sinister / Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited. 1941, 1947, 1951. Ed. Brian Boyd. The Library of America, 87. New York: Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., 1996.

  5. Nabokov, Vladimir. Novels 1955-1962: Lolita / Pnin / Pale Fire / Lolita: A Screenplay. 1955, 1957, 1962, 1974. Ed. Brian Boyd. The Library of America, 88. New York: Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., 1996.

  6. Nabokov, Vladimir. Novels 1969-1974: Ada, or Ardor: a Family Chronicle / Transparent Things / Look at the Harlequins!. 1969, 1972, 1974. Ed. Brian Boyd. The Library of America, 89. New York: Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., 1996.

  7. Neruda, Pablo. The Poetry of Pablo Neruda. Ed. Ilan Stavans. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2003.

  8. Neruda, Pablo. Passions and Impressions. [‘Para nacer he nacido’, 1978]. Ed. Matilde Neruda & Miguel Otero Silva. Trans. Margaret Sayers Peden. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc., 1983.

  9. Neruda, Pablo. Canto General: Fiftieth Anniversary Edition. [‘Canto General’, 1950]. Trans. Jack Schmitt. Introduction by Roberto González Echevarría. Latin American Literature and culture, 7. 1991. A Centennial Book. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2000.

  10. Neruda, Pablo. 100 Love Sonnets. [‘Cien sonetos de amor’, 1960]. Trans. Stephen Tapscott. Texas Pan American Series. 1986. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1995.

  11. Neruda, Pablo. Extravagaria: A Bilingual Edition. 1958. Trans. Alastair Reid. Cape Poetry Paperbacks. London: Jonathan Cape, 1972.

  12. Neruda, Pablo. Fully Empowered: A Bilingual Edition. [‘Plenos poderes’, 1962]. Trans. Alastair Reid. A Condor Book. London: Souvenir Press, 1976.

  13. Neruda, Pablo. Isla Negra: A Notebook. A Bilingual Edition. [‘Memorial de Isla Negra’, 1964]. Afterword by Enrico Mario Santí. Trans. Alastair Reid. 1981. A Condor Book. London: Souvenir Press, 1982.

  14. Neruda, Pablo. Residence on Earth. [‘Residencia en la tierra’: I, 1933; II, 1935; III, 1947]. Trans. Donald D. Walsh. New York: New Directions Press, 1973.

  15. Neruda, Pablo. Memoirs. [‘Confieso que he vivido: Memorias’, 1974]. Trans. Hardie St. Martin. 1977. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1981.

  16. Neruda, Pablo. Selected Poems: A Bi-lingual Edition. Ed. Nathaniel Tarn. Trans. Anthony Kerrigan, W. S. Merwin, Alastair Reid, & Nathaniel Tarn. 1970. Introduction by Jean Franco. Penguin Poets. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1975.

  17. Neruda, Pablo. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. [‘20 Poemas de amor y una Canción desesperada’, 1924]. Trans. W. S. Merwin. 1969. Cape Editions. London: Jonathan Cape, 1971.

  18. Neruda, Pablo. The Book of Questions. [‘El libro de las preguntas’, 1974]. Trans. William O'Daly. 1991. A Kage-An Book. Port Townsend, Washington: Copper Canyon Press, 2001.

  19. Neruda, Pablo. Splendor and Death of Joaquín Murieta. [‘Fulgor y Muerte de Joaquín Murieta’, 1966]. Trans. Ben Belitt. 1972. Noonday Press. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1973.

  20. Yeats, W. B. Yeats’s Poems. Ed. A. Norman Jeffares. Appendix by Warwick Gould. London: Papermac, 1989.

  21. Yeats, W. B. A Vision and Related Writings. Ed. A. Norman Jeffares. London: Arena, 1990.

  22. Yeats, W. B. Autobiographies: Reveries over Childhood and Youth; The Trembling of the Veil; Dramatis Personae; Estrangement; The Death of Synge; The Bounty of Sweden. 1916, 1922, 1935, 1926, 1928, 1938, 1955. Papermac. London: The Macmillan Press Ltd., 1980.




  23. Chatterton, Thomas. The Poetical Works. Ed. John Richmond. The Canterbury Poets. London: Walter Scott, 1885.

  24. Reps, Paul, & Nyogen Senzaki, trans. Zen Flesh, Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings. A Pelican Book. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971.


I can't be without a good edition of Yeats's Poems by my side, and this is a very useful one. A Vision is not to everyone's taste (anyone's taste?), but it's still interesting to pore over from time to time. The Autobiographies are also indispensable, I feel.

As for all the Neruda, what can I say? This isn't my complete collection, but he's not someone who can be read just in dribs and drabs. The Ilan Stavans selection is probably the closest thing to a satisfactory one-volume Neruda, but it's hard not to add a complete Canto General, after which the memoirs demand representation, as do these beautiful bi-lingual editions of books such as Extravagaria (probably my favourite), Isla Negra and a bunch of others. He's not my favourite poet, but there's still a Whitman-like breadth of sympathy about his writing that makes it hard to exhaust.



And now we enter the zone of the reference books. It may seem harder and harder to justify these in the age of google, but - somewhat paradoxically - this means that they don't get updated quite so often, which means that some dictionaries or encyclopedias can be seen more clearly as classic works in their own right. That's particularly true of the Science Fiction and Fantasy encyclopedias below.

They're both quite vast. They also do far more than simply listing the major authors and books from each genre. The entries on major themes or points of technique are - in most cases - brilliantly reasoned and quite original. Even the most die-hard fan (such as myself) has a lot to learn from John Clute and his team of collaborators. I quite understand why future editions of these two books will be "published" (and continuously updated) online, but that also means these last two print editions will remain indispensable to scholars and students and casual readers.



  1. Westwood, Jennifer. Albion: A Guide to Legendary Britain. London: Granada Publishing Ltd., 1985.

  2. Ashe, Geoffrey. Mythology of the British Isles. 1990. London: Methuen London, 1992.

  3. Bunyan, John. The Complete Works. Introduction by John P. Gulliver. Illustrated Edition. Philadelphia; Brantford, Ont.: Bradley, Garretson & Co. / Chicago, Ills.; Columbus, Ohio; Nashville, Tenn.; St. Louis, Mo.; San Francisco, Cal.: Wm. Garretson & Co., 1881.

  4. Clute, John, & Peter Nicholls, ed. The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. 1979. 2nd ed. Contributing Editor Brian Stableford. Technical Editor John Grant. Orbit. 1993. London: Little, Brown and Company (UK), 1999.

  5. Clute, John, & John Grant, ed. The Encyclopedia of Fantasy. Orbit. London: Little, Brown and Company (UK), 1997.

  6. de la Mare, Walter. The Complete Poems of Walter de la Mare. Ed. Richard de la Mare. 1969. London: Faber, 1975.

  7. Zipes, Jack, trans. The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm. Illustrations by Johnny B. Gruelle. 1987. New York: Bantam Books, 2003.

  8. Jackson, Holbrook. The Anatomy of Bibliomania. 1930. London: Faber, 1950.

  9. Jacobs, Joseph, ed. English Fairy Tales: Being the Two Collections English Fairy Tales and More English Fairy Tales. 1890 & 1894. Illustrated by Margery Gill. London: The Bodley Head, 1968.

  10. Cox, Michael, ed. The Ghost Stories of M. R. James. Illustrated by Rosalind Caldecott. 1986. London: Tiger Books International, 1991.




  11. Cavendish, Richard, ed. Encyclopedia of the Unexplained: Magic, Occultism and Parapsychology. Special consultant on Parapsychology; J. B. Rhine. 1974. Arkana. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1989.


There's a lot more in the way of folklore and folk legends here (and before you start giving me a hard time about the lack of local New Zealand material, there is another whole bookcase out in the lounge which is specifically reserved for such books). Besides that, John Bunyan and Walter de la Mare might seem an odd pairing, but they both write such beautiful English: there's always something to be gleaned from them.

The Richard Cavendish book is only one of many I have on kindred subjects, but it's an awfully sensible book, I think. He's certainly a cut above most other writers in the field of occultism and ghostliness. Geoffrey Ashe is quite a different story, but I have to say that I'm meditating a whole future post on him.



Some language dictionaries, for use with Neruda or naughty old Pierre Louÿs, or one of the Italian books (Dante, Calvino, Montale) I have out in the lounge - as well as that, there's a small selection of some of the more essential Opie books: the Classic Fairy Tales and Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes. There are some rather odder choices here, though.

Why Herman Melville? Because I'm fascinated by his poetry, that's why. Of course it's inferior to his prose: not just the endlessly hyped (though, alas, little read) Moby Dick, but also the great stories: "Benito Cereno," "Bartleby" and so on. That doesn't mean it's no good, though. There's no really satisfactory edition of the unpublshed as well as the published poems available yet, so for the moment I'm making do with this elegant reprint of his three self-published volumes of verse.

A Book of the Book is a weird anthology of classic reprints and contemporary essays on all aspects of the book in the age of postmodernism. Bronwyn found it in a library sale, and it just seemed too fascinating to relegate to the office. Ditto Manguel's History of Reading - not as critically sophisticated, but beautifully illustrated and designed.

Verlaine's "secret" poems go quite well with Pierre Louÿs. César Vallejo is, of course, a rather fiercer customer - read better a piece at a time than in bulk, I feel: a process facilitated by this very full new translation (or revision of a revision of a translation).

And the Faerie Queene? I have actually read it, you know: years ago, when I was an undergraduate. This is a particularly handsome edition, extensively annotated, and - as with so many of the other doorstop tomes here - you just never know when it might come in handy. I know that Spenser was a pretty brutal landlord and (possibly) lost a good deal of his lifework when the Irish peasantry burnt down his castle as a protest against his tyranny, but that doesn't mean that his poem can be easily ignored.

The beautiful copy of the Tao te Ching is for rather different moods. The photographs may be a bit hippyish, but such things are beginning to take on a nostalgiac lustre of their own as the years go by.

  1. Collins Diccionario Español-Inglés, Inglés- Español / Collins Spanish-English, English-Spanish Dictionary. Ed. Colin Smith with Manuel Bermejo Marcos & Eugenio Chang-Rodriguez. 1971. London & Glasgow: Collins, 1985.

  2. Harraps’ Shorter Italian and English Dictionary / Il Nuovo Ragazzini Dizionario Inglese Italiano Italiano Inglese. Ed. Giuseppe Ragazzini. 1984. Bologna: Nicola Zanichelli Editore, 1989.

  3. Robert-Collins Dictionnaire Français-Anglais, Anglais-Français / Collins-Robert French-English, English-French Dictionary. Ed. Beryl T. Atkins, Alain Duval, Rosemary C. Milne et al. Paris: Société du Nouveau Littré / London & Glasgow: Collins, 1984.

  4. Louÿs, Pierre. L’Oeuvre Érotique. Édition établie et présentée par Jean-Paul Goujon. Paris: Sortilèges, 1994.

  5. Manguel, Alberto. A History of Reading. London: HarperCollins Publishers, 1996.

  6. Melville, Herman. The Poems of Herman Melville. 1976. Ed. Douglas Robillard. Kent, Ohio & London: Kent State University Press, 2000.

  7. Opie, Iona & Peter, ed. The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes. 1951. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984.

  8. Opie, Iona & Peter, ed. The Classic Fairy Tales. London: Oxford University Press, 1974.

  9. Opie, Iona & Moira Tatem, ed. A Dictionary of Superstitions. 1989. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990.

  10. Rothenberg, Jerome, & Steven Clay, ed. A Book of the Book: Some Works & Projections about the Book & Writing. New York: Granary Books, 2000.

  11. Verlaine, Paul. Women Men: The Secret Poems of Paul Verlaine. [‘Femmes’, 1890; ‘Hombres’, 1892 / 1904]. Trans. Alastair Elliot. New York: The Sheep Meadow Press, 1979.

  12. Vallejo, César. The Complete Poetry. Trans. Clayton Eshleman. Foreword by Mario Vargas Llosa. Introduction by Efrain Kristal. Chronology by Stephen M. Hart. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008.

  13. Spenser, Edmund. The Faerie Queene. Ed. A. C. Hamilton. 1977. Revised Second Edition. 2001. Text edited by Hiroshi Yamashita & Toshiyuki Suzuki. Longman Annotated English Poets. Edinburgh Gate, Harlow: Pearson Education Limited, 2007.

  14. Westwood, Jennifer & Jacqueline Simpson. The Lore of the Land: A Guide to England’s Legends, from Spring-Heeled Jack to the Witches of Warboys. London: Penguin Books, 2005.

  15. Lao Tsu. Tao Te Ching. Trans. Gia-Fu Feng & Jane English. 1972. London: Wildwood House Ltd., 1975.


I fear that I've missed out a number of authors. Why Chatterton, for instance? Well, why not? It's an elegant little book, and it doesn't take up much room, and he is a fascinating character, for all that his poetry seems so lustreless now.

Holbrook Jackson's The Anatomy of Bibliomania? Rather a silly book, unfortunately - but still a nice idea, and it does go well with Jackson's own Everyman edition of The Anatomy of Melancholy in the shelf above.

Joseph Jacobs? His English Fairy Tales is a worthy companion to the Brothers Grimm (represented here in the very full, if not always particularly elegant, Jack Zipes translation). It is, to be sure, far less scholarly, but just as beautifully written.

Well, I could probably go on and on forever, but I have to stop somewhere. You'd think with all those books sitting right there, I'd never be at a loss for something to read.

Alas, there seems to be a rule of inverse returns: no matter how many fascinating treasures you have in the bookcase by your bed, it's always that one inaccessible volume on the far side of the house that you find yourself hankering after as twilight falls.


Monday, June 04, 2012

Classic Ghost Story Writers: Walter de la Mare



William Rothenstein: Walter de la Mare (1929)

The Green Room


"The Green Room" is a story about a young man named Alan, who is one day let in on the old bookseller Mr. Elliott's "little secret - namely, that at the far end of his shop - beyond, that is, the little table on which he kept his account books, his penny bottle of ink and his rusty pen, there was an annexe."

Beyond the annexe itself (whose paint "must once have been of a bright apple green. It had faded now"), though, there's yet another room, up through "the narrow panelled door above the three stairs on the other side of the room." Alan is lured into going through that door by the image of a young woman's face, which appears in his mind as if out of nowhere. And there he finds - well, I suspect it would spoil the story if I told you too abruptly.


The author of the story, Walter de la Mare (1873-1956), was once quite famous. Even now his poems still turn up in anthologies from time to time: "The Listeners" ("Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, / Knocking on the moonlit door") is probably the best-known, but there's also "Tartary," "The Children of Stare" ("Winter is fallen early / On the house of Stare") and quite a number of others which have ended up in the children's section of the library.

In his time, though, children were only one part of the audience he wrote for. He was thought of as a poet for grown-ups as well, and in fact the 1940s edition of his collected poems was divided into two separate volumes: Poems (for adults) and Rhymes and Verses (for kids). Here's a list of some of the books by him I have in my collection:

    Poems & Plays
    (for Adults & Children):

  1. Peacock Pie: A Book of Rhymes. 1913. Illustrated by Edward Ardizzone. London: Faber, 1946.

  2. Crossings: A Fairy Play. Music by C. Armstrong Gibbs. London: W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., 1923.

  3. Collected Poems. Decorations by Berthold Wolpe. 1942. London: Faber, 1944.

  4. Collected Rhymes and Verses. Decorations by Berthold Wolpe. London: Faber, 1944.

  5. A Choice of de la Mare’s Verse. Ed. W. H. Auden. London: Faber, 1963.

  6. The Complete Poems of Walter de la Mare. Ed. Richard de la Mare. 1969. Rev. ed. London: Faber, 1975.

The Auden selection is particularly good, and has a most insightful introduction (as one might expect). De la Mare was quite an important poet for him, and he was quick to reject any simplistic distinctions between "verse" and "poetry" in discussing his work (the rather questionable dichotomy T. S. Eliot tried to introduce in his own 1941 Faber selection of Kipling's Verse).


I guess largely as a result of "The Green Room," which I first encountered in an anthology called A Century of Ghost Stories when I was a kid, it's always been de la Mare's fiction which has fascinated me most. "The Green Room" is not a particularly easy story to read. De la Mare is a self-indulgent and over-elaborate prose-writer (or he certainly seemed so to me as a child), and there were few sentences in the story which did not have to be read over twice.

Its subject matter - old books, and the strange and even disturbing discoveries that can sometimes be made in them - was enthralling to me, though, so I persevered. As you can see from the list below, I've been collecting him assiduously ever since:

    Fiction
    (for Adults & Children):

  1. Henry Brocken: His Travels and Adventures in the Rich, Strange, Scarce-Imaginable Regions of Romance. 1904. Illustrated by Marian Ellis. London: W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., [1924].

  2. The Three Royal Monkeys, or The Three Mulla-Mulgars. 1910. Illustrated by J. A. Shepherd. London: Faber, 1928.

  3. The Return. 1910. London: Penguin Books, 1935.

  4. Memoirs of a Midget. 1921. Illustrated by Mabel Lapthorn. London: Collins, n.d.

  5. The Riddle and Other Stories. London: Selwyn & Blount Limited, 1923.

  6. The Connoisseur and Other Stories. 1926. London: W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., 1926.

  7. On the Edge: Short Stories. 1932. London: Faber, 1947.

  8. The Walter de la Mare Omnibus: Henry Brocken; The Return; Memoirs of a Midget. 1904, 1910, 1921. London: W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., [1933].

  9. The Wind Blows Over. London: Faber, 1936.

  10. The Nap and Other Stories. The Nelson Classics. 1936. London: Thomas Nelson and Sons Ltd., n.d.

  11. Best Stories of Walter de la Mare. London: Faber, 1942.

  12. Collected Stories for Children. 1947. Illustrated by Robin Jacques. A Puffin Book. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1984.

  13. A Beginning and Other Stories. 1955. London: Faber, 1955.

  14. Ghost Stories. Lithographs by Barnett Freedman. 1956. London: The Folio Society, 1960.

  15. Short Stories 1895-1926. Ed. Giles de la Mare. 1923, 1924/36 & 1926. London: Giles de la Mare Publishers, 1996.

  16. Short Stories 1927-1956. Ed. Giles de la Mare. 1930, 1936 & 1955. London: Giles de la Mare Publishers, 2001.

  17. Short Stories for Children. Ed. Giles de la Mare. Illustrated by ‘Bold’ & Rex Whistler. 1925 & 1933. London: Giles de la Mare Publishers, 2006.

De la Mare was fortunate in leaving behind a family of literary enthusiasts. His son Richard de la Mare edited the definitive edition of his poems in 1969, and his short stories have now been published in a sumptuous three-volume edition by his grandson Giles, who runs a firm called Giles de la Mare publishers. The ghost stories, such as "Seaton's Aunt" and "All Hallows," are probably the ones most frequently read today, but there are some strange and disconcerting pieces among the stories for children, also ("The Lord Fish" and "The Riddle," in particular).


Walter de la Mare: Short Stories 1895-1926 (1995)


Walter de la Mare: Short Stories 1927-1956 (2001)


Walter de la Mare: Short Stories for Children (2006)

The introduction to Auden's selection of de la Mare's best poems concentrates largely on his famous anthology Come Hither (1923), or rather on the allegorical introduction to the book. The narrator, Simon (Somni? Sleep, or Dream?), comes to a house called Thrae (Earth? Heart?), owned by a Miss Taroon (Nature?), whose brother Nahum (Human?) left behind a collection of writings and curiosities in his room when he left to search for East Dean (the East of Eden?). It is the study of these which led the compilation of the book, which is a strange amalgam of poems, long footnotes, and evocative pieces of prose.

None of his subsequent anthologies and collections of essays could quite repeat the magic of the first, but all of them are interesting, more to dip into than to read from cover to cover: Behold, this Dreamer! (1939) is probably the best; Love (1943) perhaps the most disappointing (one contemporary critic said that one could virtually define the subject by what did not come up - passion, eroticism, obsession - in this immense but patchy book).

    Anthologies & Essays:

  1. Come Hither: A Collection of Rhymes and Poems for the Young of All Ages. Ed. Walter de la Mare. 1923. New edition. 1928. London: Constable and Co. Ltd., 1943.

  2. Tales Told Again. 1927. Illustrated by Alan Howard. Faber Fanfares. London: Faber, 1980.

  3. Stories from the Bible. 1929. Illustrated by Edward Ardizzone. London: Faber, 1977.

  4. Desert Islands and Robinson Crusoe. Decorations by Rex Whistler. 1930. London: Faber, 1988.

  5. Tom Tiddler’s Ground: A Book of Poetry for Children. Ed. Walter de la Mare. 1931. Foreword by Leonard Clark. Illustrated by Margery Gill. 1961. London: The Bodley Head, 1975.

  6. Early One Morning in the Spring: Chapters on Children and on Childhood as it is revealed in particular in Early Memories and in Early Writings. London: Faber, 1935.

  7. Animal Stories Chosen, Arranged and in Some Part Rewritten by Walter de la Mare. London: Faber, 1939.

  8. Pleasures and Speculations. London: Faber, 1940.

  9. Behold, this Dreamer!: Of Reverie, Night, Sleep, Dream, Love-Dreams, Nightmare, Death, the Unconscious, the Imagination, Divination, the Artist, and Kindred Subjects. 1939. London: Readers’ Union, 1942.

  10. Love. London: Faber, 1943.

  11. Private View. Introduction by Lord David Cecil. London: Faber, 1953.

There are still a few anthologies - Old Rhymes and New (1932), principally, as well as various books of essays - which I don't have, but most of the rest are listed above.


The secondary literature on de la Mare is pretty sketchy: fortunately there's quite a full biography, but besides that it consists mainly of a book of table talk compiled by neurologist Russell Brain, a volume in the Twayne critical series, and a few essays and bibliographies.

Besides that, he comes up in most discussions of the twentieth century ghost story. His work falls more in the penumbra between supernatural and fantasy fiction, though.


    Secondary:

  1. Brain, Russell. Tea with Walter de la Mare. Drawing by Andrew Freeth. London: Faber, 1957.

  2. Clark, Leonard. Walter de la Mare: A Checklist prepared on the occasion of an exhibition of his books and MSS at the National Book League, 7 Albemarle Street, London W1 (20th April to 19th May 1956). Introduction by Lord David Cecil. Cambridge: The University Press, 1956.

  3. Whistler, Theresa. Imagination of the Heart: The Life of Walter de la Mare. London: Gerald Duckworth & Co. Ltd., 1993.


Barnett Freedman: Walter de la Mare: Ghost Stories (1956)

If one set out to psychoanalyse Walter de la Mare, I guess one of the first things that would stand out would be the threatening nature of the feminine in most of his work. "Seaton's Aunt" is the classic case: a sensitive small boy is psychically consumed by his predatory aunt for undisclosed reasons. The narrator of the story abandons him to his fate with the reflection, "he had never been much better than 'buried' in my mind".

There's a particularly strange story ("At First Sight") about a man who is unable to lift his eyes from the ground, and who tries (unsuccessfully) to court a young girl without being able to look at her. Then there's "The Riddle," with its mysterious chest that swallows the children one by one, and its strange last line:
And gossiping fitfully, inarticulately, with herself, the old lady went down again to her window-seat.
Old ladies tend to be survivors in Walter de la Mare - but often (as in this case) they seem to survive the loss of their own faculties as well.


"The Green Room" is, to my mind, one of the most fully realised of all these stories. The backroom of Mr. Elliott's shop seems to be haunted by its former occupant, a young lady who was left on her own there by her lover, and who confided her doubts and fears to a notebook of poems and thoughts, before (eventually) committing suicide there.

Alan finds the notebook (fully and lovingly described, with transcriptions of many Emily Brontë-ish verses in de la Mare's very best manner), and determines to publish it. He decides that this is what she wants, on the evidence of her appearance to him, but it seems he is wrong. The story ends with the ceiling of the room falling in on his privately-printed edition of her verses, destroying all of the copies, and utterly confounding his desire to make it all up to her, somehow, even after her death:
It was too late now - and in any case it hadn't occurred to him - to add to the title page that well-worn legend, 'The heart knoweth his own bitterness, and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy.' But it might at least have served for his own brief apologia. He had meant well - it would have suggested. You never can tell.
The citation is from Proverbs 14: 10. More to the point, though, it's also the title of a poem by Christina Rossetti:
When all the over-work of life
Is finished once, and fast asleep
We swerve no more beneath the knife
But taste that silence cool and deep;
Forgetful of the highways rough,
Forgetful of the thorny scourge,
Forgetful of the tossing surge,
Then shall we find it is enough?
Alan has fallen in love with the ghostly face that appears to him; but he hasn't really earned that love. It isn't enough to make up for the betrayal she suffered while she was alive - all she can share with him is bitterness. Her scorn for his presumption outlasts her own death.

I suspect that this - and possibly others of de la Mare's stories - are anchored in events from his own life. Any suggestion that his work is "tame" or "childish" is belied by the dark and hope-denying imagery of the poetry in the story, though. Above all the one that begins:
Last evening, as I sat alone -
Thimble on finger, needle and thread -
Light dimming as the dusk drew on,
I dreamed that I was dead.
It ends:
And you I loved, who once loved me,
And shook with pangs this mortal frame,
Were sunk to such an infamy
That when I called your name,

Its knell so racked that sentient clay
That my lost spirit lurking near
Wailed, like the damned, and fled away -
and awoke me, stark with Fear.
I've never been quite able to decide what exactly "The Green Room" means, but it's a story whose influence I've been unable to escape since I first read it. It's taken on new shades and complexities in every rereading since. Its final effect is the reverse of comforting, but perhaps that's of a piece with de la Mare's stoic view of life as something to be endured rather than enjoyed - evaded rather than embraced. Brrrr ...


Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

Monday, May 21, 2012

In the Court of the Crimson King



Well, it's finally happened. I knew it would if I kept at it for long enough: kept reading Stephen King books, that is (you can find a full list of my accumulations here).

It's one of those guilty pleasures - the kind where you keep on telling yourself that you can take it or leave it alone. Until it turns out you can't, that is.

I first started reading him, on the advice of a friend ("He's my favourite pulp author! You've got to give him a try") in the mid-eighties, when I was living in a hall of residence in Scotland. There was no chance of watching television of an evening - my usual way of unwinding - as all the channels were set permanently to snooker tournaments (this is the UK we're talking), so I had to find something else to do. That something turned out to be reading endless Stephen King paperbacks.

Or not that endless, really. This was, after all, twenty-five years ago, and the Master has never really stopped producing since, despite occasional threats of "retirement." To be honest, I don't think he'd know what to do with himself.

When I got back to New Zealand in the 90s, I discovered that my habit had gone up a notch. From now on it wasn't enough to buy the books second-hand when I came across them accidentally: from about Four Past Midnight (1990) on, I had to buy each new one the moment it came out.

So when I bought The Wind through the Keyhole at the local stationers on Friday, there was no reason for me to suspect anything out of the ordinary. Until I got it home and started reading, that is.


[King Crimson: In the Court of the Crimson King (1969)]


I guess at this point that it's necessary to point out something about Big Steve's books which mightn't be apparent to outsiders, or those who've only read the occasional one of them: They're all linked.

It used to be that backwoodsy Maine regionalism was the common factor in most of his tales: a great many of them were set in or around the mythical towns of Castle Rock or Derry, Maine, and the occasional character would turn up in another book from time to time.

Around about Insomnia (1994), his other world, the alternate universe known as Mid-World, associated principally with his long-running fantasy series The Dark Tower (1982-2004), began to leak into the "real-world" novels. Specifically, that Dark Lord of chaos and disorder known as the "Crimson King" (rather analogous to H. P. Lovecraft's "crawling chaos Azathoth") ...

Then, in 1999, he had that terrible car accident, where a van ploughed into him while he was out jogging, and he was forced to lie still in traction for more than a year, with multiple fractures of virtually everything that could be fractured. He wrote about the experience in his non-fictional memoir / how-to manual On Writing (2000). Then he wrote about it again, in slightly fictionalised form, in the last volume of The Dark Tower. Then he wrote about it again, in even more fictionalised form, in his adaptation of Lars von Trier's mad Danish mini-series Kingdom Hospital (2004). By now I think it could be said to have become an obsession.

What, then, was my horror to discover that - not only was the nightmarish "Dark Tower" series not at an end (though the one he's just published is, strictly speaking, neither a prequel nor a sequel: it falls somewhere between volumes 4 and 5 of the set: 4.5, as he calls it), but I had myself somehow taken up residence within it.

What does he mean, I hear you ask? Has he gone as potty as his favourite author? No. What I mean is that in the third story of this frame-story encrusted narrative (a little like Potocki's Manuscript Found at Saragossa), there's a character called "Big Ross." Fine and dandy - Ross is a common enough surname. But then, on p.128, it specifies:
Once upon a bye, Nell Robertson, Jack Ross, and Bern Kells had been children together.
After that, the references come thick and fast. I don't want to ruin the story for you, but suffice it to say that Big Jack Ross is murdered by his best friend Kells, who then marries his widow Nell. When Big Ross's son Tim finds his body lying in a stream in the woods:
The chill of the water has preserved him, and he appears to be unmarked, because the man who murdered him struck from behind. [p.175]
The rest of the river is infested with bugs, which "are voracious flesh-eaters, but according to the old wives, they'll not eat the flesh of a virtuous man" - which is, I suppose, some comfort, though not very much.

So there you go. He's caught me at last - as a character, a dead character in fact (albeit a "virtuous" one) in his latest novel. But how did he get wind of my existence at all? How did he come up with this plan for snaring me in the inexorable toils of "Ka", in the Court of the Crimson King?

One theory that occurred to me was that he might have chanced upon the review I wrote of one of the earlier volumes of the Dark Tower saga -- volume 4, in fact, the one which immediately precedes this latest, out-of-strict-sequence addition to the series. It appeared in out short-lived cultural journal the pander in 1998. Here it is:


[Stephen King: Wizard and Glass (1997)]

Stephen King. Wizard and Glass. The Dark Tower, 4. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1997. 672 pp. $34.95.


The psychomachia of Stephen King continues. By now, his “constant readers” (that is how he addresses us) have become accustomed to author’s asides intended to keep us up to date with the never-ceasing agony of creation. The latest volume in the “Dark Tower” series has been unusually long in gestation, and since the one before it – The Waste Lands – ended on a cliffhanger, this has been frustrating for fans accustomed to a regular fix. What excuses does he have to offer, then?
I knew that Wizard and Glass meant doubling back to Roland’s young days, and to his first love affair, and I was scared to death of that story. Suspense is relatively easy, at least for me; love is hard. Consequently I dallied, I temporized, I procrastinated, and the book remained unwritten.
It’s just like the old song, really: “I dillied, I dallied; I dallied, I dillied” – and so what, really? Where does all this get us? Well, it gets us to a day in western Nebraska where a still small voice spoke to the self-styled “shlockmeister” as he travelled across the deserted miles of cornfields. “I will help you,” it said; and over time he came to realise that this was the voice of his young self, facing him across a whore’s bed in a land of his own imagination!

I’m being a bit sarky at the master’s expense, I suppose, but I must confess that I see a certain danger in so relentless a self-dramatisation. As he whispers confidences to us, his wide-eyed audience, mentioning in passing that he’s “written enough novels and short stories to fill a solar system of the imagination, but Roland’s story is my Jupiter,” he sets himself an increasingly difficult standard to live up to.

This kind of literary hubris is nothing new, of course. In the preface to The Rescue (1920), Conrad recounts all the vicissitudes which kept him from the book for twenty years. He laid it aside in 1898, and took it up again in 1918. In between these two dates, he wrote everything worth reading that’s associated with his name. “Sentiment, pure sentiment … prompted me in the last instance to face the pains and hazards of that return.”
As I moved slowly towards the abandoned body of the tale it loomed up big amongst the glittering shallows of the coast, lonely but not forbidding. … One after another I made out the familiar faces watching my approach with faint smiles of amused recognition. They had known well enough that I was bound to come back to them … and every moment I felt more strongly that They Who had Waited bore no grudge to the man who, however widely may have wandered at times, had played truant only once in his life.
Conrad writes more elegantly than Big Steve, of course, but this is frighteningly close to the latter’s description of the moment when “I found myself confronting myself across a whore’s bed [he particularly likes that phrase, it seems; it comes up twice in a two page Afterword] – the unemployed schoolboy with the long black hair and beard on one side, the successful popular novelist … on the other.”

Why “frighteningly” close? Because The Rescue is a dreadful book: dull, and overwritten, and interminably dragged out, and because it sets the tone for other elaborately unreadable pieces of late Conrad such as The Rover and The Arrow of Gold. This kind of musing on the past, on the mysteries of craft which can connect a scene begun in 1970 and not completed until 1996, sounds valedictory, not constructive. For almost the first time we begin to doubt the master’s fecundity.

So does the problem stem from writing prefaces to your works at all? No, I don’t think so. Anyone who has graduated to a collected edition will presumably be leant on to provide prefaces. Henry James did it, Graham Greene did it, Thomas Hardy did it. But most of them took up an attitude of commenting on past achievement without ruling out the possibility of further heights. Ending an aside to the reader with the words: “I have started to believe I might actually live to complete this cycle of stories. (Knock on wood.)” scarcely inspires one with confidence in Stephen King’s present state of mind. And commenting of your own book, “I don’t know if it’s good or bad – I lost all sense of perspective around page six hundred – but it’s here” sounds unnecessarily grovelly also. It deliberately (and, to my mind, disingenuously) plays into the hands of hostile critics. We all love to kick a man when he’s down, but if he squeals enough while we’re doing it, at least we might feel a bit ashamed of ourselves – that’s the reasoning, I think.

So, after all that, what’s the book actually like?

Well, better than The Rescue, certainly. That book begins quite well and then gets terribly dull. Wizard and Glass kicks off with about a hundred pages of the dullest writing that Stephen King has ever perpetrated. I may be alone in having quite enjoyed the previous volume of the series, which ended with our hapless heroes caught in the clutches of an evil monorail train, but the way in which they extricate themselves from this dilemma really makes “with a single bound, Jack was free!” look like a masterpiece of the storyteller’s art.

Imagine reading a Big Steve book where you start checking to see how many pages you still have to endure, rather than how many are left to enjoy!

Thankfully, once we get into the swing of the central narrative, the old master begins to exert his spell (sorry, all those old reviewers’ clichés seem to erupt in me at once: “ a rattling good yarn,” “suitable for readers from six to sixty,” “I read till two tall candles were stumps” [I always used to wonder what they’d been doing with the candles]). I don’t myself find the strange mélange of King Arthur, Gary Cooper and post-apocalyptic America which characterises Roland’s world anything but incongruous, but it doesn’t matter very much, really. King has generally been better with people than with places, and the people here are interesting enough to keep us turning the pages (I’m doing it again: “ a real page-turner.”)

The “young love” aspect is fine, I think. I don’t see what all the fuss was about. If Big Steve thinks that that’s the worst thing about the book, he’s got another think coming. The real problem is that everything good is in the central flashback narrative. Most of the weaknesses come from the fact that he (and we) have really lost interest in Eddie, and Susannah, and Jake, and especially Oy the billy-bumbler as they make their interminable way towards the increasingly unimaginable Dark Tower.

Hitherto, I’ve yielded to none in my admiration of Stephen King, but I rather resent the fact that he has taken up this tone of Who’s not with me, is against me. The book has been made to resemble a loyalty test. Click your heels three times and say “There’s no King like Stephen,” and you might be rewarded with more volumes in the series. Tough love – that’s what he needs now, I think. I want more Heart of Darkness and The Secret Agent, not more stuff like this, hovering on the very brink of being declared, once and for all, a load of old tosh.


[Pander 3 (1998) 20-21].




Yee-owch! I don't know what possessed me to bother the Dark Master with such glib fatuities, such grad-school inanity. All I can say in my defence is that it was roughly the fifth book review I'd ever written in my life, and I didn't yet know that you don't have to offend someone every time.

It isn't so much what I said, I suspect, as the patronizing tone of the whole thing. Who am I, after all, to condescend to the likes of Stephen King? I virtually am that "constant reader" he so often addresses in his prefaces and afterwords. Not this time, though - this latest "Dark Tower" tome is largely free of all such appurtenances.

Anyway, point taken - revenge has been wreaked. Just as Stephen King's car accident set off such huge reverberations in Mid-World, so (apparently) did my cheeky review of Wizard and Glass - hence my avatar's being found miraculously preserved in a stream, with an axe-blow to the back of the head. I guess it's a bit late to say sorry, but I do take some comfort in the very last page of The Wind Through the Keyhole:



The two most beautiful words in any language are ... I forgive. [p.335]
Thank you, Master, for your kind forebearance. I shall not offend again.