Having nibbled a cakeat Sherry’s, and left a card in Madison Avenue on the Archbishop of New York(who was yet again, it seemed, a father), Mrs Rosemerchant told Lionel to dropher beneath the elm trees in CentralPark. Turning into Fifty-ninth Street, however, she altered her mind, anddirected him to a house on Fifth Avenue a littlebeyond the synagogue. Skirting the Park, enchanting now, decked in the very earliest buds of spring, the car slackened speed before anedifice in brown stone, constructed on the lines of achâteau François Ier.
Assemblingsimultaneously in a batch together several equipages were obstructing the roadway just ahead. Blocking herwindscreen, she recognized Bertie Waldorf’shandsome English horses of Tetrarch grey, with their white and silver harness, and theclosed limousine of Mrs Stella Mandarin Dove. Evidently the committee of the Animals Subscription-ball in aid of the ‘AdaBeamish Maternity-home Extension’ was rallying loyally to the president, Mrs Otto van Cotton.
‘It’s remarkable alwayshow Selina can compel attendance,’ Mrs Rosemerchantreflected,alighting between a couple of smiling Sphinxes, bearing a monogram and thedevice: Take Nature as it comes.
Following leisurely in the wake of severalvanishing backs, she found herself beneath a Renaissance rotunda, bare but for an antique statue or two, and avast block fan in miniature mosaics that comprised the floor: from theadjoining reception rooms came a convivial hum of voices.
RepudiatingBirth-control, believing that men and women shouldmultiply and increase, the ‘Ada Beamish’ appeal found in Mrs Van Cotton an idealsupporter.
An altercation of thechoice of cotillion favours was in progress asMrs Rosemerchant was announced.
‘For the fifth figurelet us provide vanity bags for the gentlemenandmoustache-brushes for the ladies,’ a bald, clean-shaven man in horn-rimmed glasseshad just launched the suggestion.
‘Give me to know, Baron, which favour goes to which?’
‘Say, everybody, why not whips?’ The proposal fell from the lips of a woman of almostfearsome beauty, recallingMedusa, with her longtrembling ear-rings and dark-parted hair.
‘First, give me to know, dear, what we all would do withthem? . . .? . . .?
Welcomed rapturouslyby her hostess, Mrs Rosemerchant lost the reply.
'Because,' Madame Ruizrepressed a yawn, 'because, my dear, I feel armchairish.'
With a kiss of thefinger-tips (decidedly distinguished hands had Vittorio Ruiz), he turned away.
Joying frankly inexcess, the fiery noontide hour had a special charm for him.
It was the hour, to be sure, of 'the Faun!'
'Aho, Ahi, Aha!' hecarolled, descending half trippingly a few white winding stairs that broughthim upon a fountain. Palms, with their floating fronds radiating light, stoodall around.
It was here 'thecreative mood' would sometimes take him, for he possessed no small measure oftalent of his own.
His Three Hodeidahs,and Five Phallic Dances for Pianoforte and Orchestra, otherwise known as'Suite in Green,' had taken the whole concert world by storm, and, now, growingmore audacious, he was engaged upon an opera to be known, by and by, as Sumaïa.
'Ah Atthis, it wasSappho who told me--' tentatively he sought an air.
A touch of banterthere.
'Ah Atthis--' One mustmake the girl feel that her little secret is out...; quiz her; but let herknow, and pretty plainly, that the Poetess had been talking...
'Ah Atthis--'
But somehow or other the lyric mood to-daywas obdurate and not to be persuaded.
'Iblame the oysters! Afteroysters--' he murmured, turning about to ascertain what was exciting the dogs.
She was coming up the drive with her faceto the sun, her body shielded behind a spreading bouquet of circumstance.
FOG was so dense, bird that had been disturbed went flat into a balustrade and slowly fell, dead, at her feet.
There it lay and Miss Fellowes looked up to where that pall of fog was twenty feet above and out of which it had fallen, turning over once. She bent down and took a wing then entered a tunnel in front of her, and this had DEPARTURES lit up over it, carrying her dead pigeon.
-- Henry Green, Party Going, 1939
HUDDLED up in a cope of gold wrought silk he peered around. Society had rallied in force. A christening -- and not a child's.
-- Ronald Firbank, Concerning The Eccentricities Of Cardinal Pirelli, 1926
Click!... Here it was again! He was walking along the cliff at Hunstanton and it had come again...Click!...
Or would the word 'snap' or 'crack' describe it better?
It was a noise inside his head, and yet it was not a noise. It was the sound a noise makes when it abruptly ceases: it had a temporary deafening effect. It was as though one had blown one's nose too hard and the outer world had suddenly become dim and dead. And yet he was not physically deaf: it was merely that in this physical way alone could he think of what had happened in his head.
It was though a shutter had fallen. It had fallen noiselessly, but the thing had been so quick that he could only think of it as a crack or a snap. It had come over his brain as a sudden film, induced by a foreign body, might come over the eye. He felt that if only he could 'blink' his brain it would at once be dispelled. A film. Yes, it was like the other sort of 'film' too -- a 'talkie'. It was as though he had been watching a talking film, and all at once the sound-track had failed. The figures on the screen continued to move, to behave more or less logically; but they were figures in a new, silent, indescribably eerie world. Life, in fact, which had once been for him a moment ago a 'talkie', had all at once become a silent film. And there was no music.
He was not frightened, because by now he was used to it.
“When we were first married,” she said, “I was very, very wretched. I would weep, weep, weep at night! And in the morning, often my maid would have to put my pillow-case out upon the window-ledge to dry. Fortunately, it was in Sicily, so it never took long.”
-- Vainglory (1915)
To watch the trees slip past in the dusk was entrancing quite. In a meadow a shepardess with one white wether stood up and waved her crook.
“Poor Palmer seems completely worn out.” The maid stirred slightly at her name.
“When Greek meets Greek, miss,” she asked informingly, “can you tell me what they’re supposed to do?”
“Since we’re all English,” Miss O’Brookomore replied, “I don’t think it matters. . . . “
For the last ten days or so, I have been crazy from the heat, sick as a dog, demented by details and generally inattentive. But all the while I’ve been planning to post a piece here, which I finally decided to call Major Minor, which is the name of a fine Peter Blegvad song that appears on his album, The Naked Shakespeare.
Originally, I had simply intended to write a short appreciation (because I am not a professional critic, that seemed to be the proper appellation for my projected effort) of the 20th century English novelist and playwright Patrick Hamilton, who is probably best known for his successful stage plays Rope and Gaslight, both later made into famous, highly regarded motion pictures. Although I enjoy both plays (and think the recent transformation of “gaslight” into a verb is fascinating, if disturbing, language and behavior issue), I strongly prefer Hamilton’s novels (early to late, from Craven House through Unknown Assailant) and thought I would include in the post the section of Claud Cockburn’s memorable introduction to The Slaves of Solitude where he recalls Hamilton’s extraordinarily acute powers of physical and psychological observation, even in crowded settings like London pubs, which can overwhelm most people with their buzz and din, and his “bat’s wing ear” for dialogue. I also planned to include several selections from Hamilton’s work, including an excerpt from his remarkable, underrated early “graphic novel”, Impromptu In Moribundia (which illustrates Hamilton ability to raise and transform what might be viewed as tiresome political polemic into genuinely moving story-telling and art), and the short final section of Mr. Stimson and Mr. Gorse where we leave the story of Ernest Ralph Gorse (Hamilton describes his protagonist as “the worst man in the world” and creates a riveting portrait, sustained over a long haul, of a sociopath) proper, and are suddenly placed on a different plane of convincing, frightening prophecy, which has unfortunately proved to be a largely accurate picture of European and western life. Rounding the post out would be the inclusion of several charming “author photos”, including the one showing the great man’s drawing room in his flat at The Albany in London (also home to Lord Byron, William Gladstone, Raffles, Jack Worthing, Graham Greene, Anthony Armstrong-Jones, Sir Kenneth Clark, Terrence Rattigan and Terence Stamp, among other notables).
In any event, on my way to “there” (“there” being the composition and publication of the post), I ran into the following quotation about Hamilton from the English critic D.J. Taylor:
“Every so often, though, the revulsion slips away and one is left with the joke or the sideways glance, the twitch upon the psychological thread that guarantees Hamilton a singular place as one of the great minor English novelists.”
The word and classifier “minor”, which I have seen applied untold numbers of times in various ways to artists I admire by critics I don’t, stopped me dead in my tracks. As it usually does, it made me angry for a while and arrested forward motion. I’m feeling better now and would like to say (as briefly as I can manage) that for some reason it appears that many of the artists I admire most are regularly classified as “minor”. Henry Green, who I consider to be the greatest English writer of the 20th century and an incomparable genius, has regularly been called minor. The extraordinary Ronald Firbank, author of Considering The Eccentricities of Cardinal Pirelli, a writer of peerless wit, facility and humanity (read Sorrow In Sunlight) – minor. Denton Welch, the brave, gimlet-eyed soul who achieved so much as a writer in his short life, ending with the masterpiece A Voice Through A Cloud, is generally considered minor. And Julian Maclaren-Ross, a short story writer, memoirist, critic, parodist and novelist of uncommon character and quality (and the only critic with the sense and integrity to praise Patrick Hamilton’s uniformly loathed conclusion to The Gorse Trilogy, Unknown Assailant) is , for some pitiable and misguided souls, an artist placed at the minor end of minor.
I believe (and recall being taught) that classification was a key intellectual step forward for mankind, through which we bring order to the chaos of our copious, but disheveled, direct observations of life, supposedly in a rational and effective pursuit of our desire to discern “first principles”. That being said, I haven’t encountered (as far as I can discern) the intellect, soul or any other aspect of Aristotle in critics who expel the word “minor” like a puny bullet, damning artists with faint praise in order to elevate themselves to a plane higher than their target. The practice reminds me of a remark I read the other day in a magazine article about the “longshoreman philosopher” Eric Hoffer: "Rudeness is the weak man's imitation of strength”.
Critics apply this “major/minor” idiocy/fallacy to other arts also and I confess to having a consistent record of finding talent, value, genius and pleasure in “minor” figures across the spectrum, from the Greek poet Archilochus to the artists of the French rococo period, from the French painter Yves Tanguy to the American painter of small details, Vija Celmins, from the English expatriate songwriter and pataphysician Kevin Ayers to the American expatriate songwriter and cartoonist Peter Blegvad, both artists of surpassing talent whose “crime” against “major-ness” was simply never having had a big commercial hit.
(Notes to probably already bored readers:
1. I have decided to dispense with the fuller list and to give only the several examples cited above. I could go on and on. N.b. I am leaving The Kinks out of this.
2. I am a Quaker, which is, I suppose a “minor religion” in some people’s eyes, although such a conclusion would be inaccurate in any number of ways.
3. Peter Blegvad is the author of one of the world’s longest grammatically correct palindromes. “Peel’s foe not a set animal laminates a tone of sleep.” MINOR? I ask you.)
In conclusion, I would like to offer my “crazy from the heat” friends (and their parents in the case of Recipe 2 below) something delicious for relief from the high temperatures and stress of it all:
Recipe 1: Papaya-Banana Smoothie
1 cup milk
1/4 cup Greek yogurt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 small ripe banana, peeled and sliced
1/2 large, ripe papaya, peeled, seeded and chopped
1 cup ice cubes
Combine the milk, yogurt, vanilla, banana, papaya and ice cubes in a blender and blend until smooth. Pour into a large glass.
Recipe 2: Mango-Yogurt-White Rum Smoothie
2 ripe mangoes, peeled, pitted and chopped
2 cups Greek yogurt
1/2 cup mango nectar
1/2 cup white rum
Crushed ice
2 to 4 tablespoons simple syrup, depending on sweetness of mangoes
Combine mango, yogurt, nectar, rum and a few cups of crushed ice in a blender and blend until smooth and frothy. Sweeten with simple syrup, if needed. Divide among 4 glasses and serve.
