Tom strikes again

Of course I don't mean the Oxonian

carillon, that I've been privileged

not to hear; and of course I do mean

the man of The Waste Land, which so

possessed this page at one time, a

strenuous experience, like all our

dearest won, tentatively suspended 
struggles for what he remembers as, 

life in accordance with the mind.

Yes, I mean the Tom of that poetry,

whom The New York Review has re-

discovered in an unpublished lec-

ture on the Elizabethan poet and

translator of Homer, Chapman. What

can be said, but that Mr Eliot has

cast another snare in our complais-

ant path, but that because he did,

we can take it seriously. 

Ted Cruz and I had the same college

education, and we attended similar

law schools. Too obviously, he went

there for answers, to learn their

seduction. I went there for ques-

tions, to share their embrace. The

reason for this posting is the gale

of spontaneous hugs in T.S. Eliot;

I don't know what to do with them,

but I don't deny, I need them.

Dante knew as well as Chapman and 

Dostoevski that man belongs to two 

worlds: that the human life when it 

is human, is a compromise and a con-

flict. It is an error to regard Dan-

te’s conception of love as romantic. 

.. But I do say that if you accept 

Christian problems then you should 

accept Christian conclusions. When 

I find a writer for whom clearly the 

Christian other world does not exist, 

or who has found another “other world,” 

then I will not judge him by Christian 

standards. But I say that Chapman and 

Donne and Dostoevski, and also James 

Joyce, accept Christian problems; they 

are operating with Christian categor-

ies; and that they are all infer-

ior to Dante because they do not draw 

Christian conclusions. This is I think 

the great distress of the modern world, 

that it is neither Christian nor defin-

itely something else.

It's inevitable to hear again in

these words an elegy for coheren-

cy, entirely in keeping with The

Waste Land. The demand is exactly

what can lead to a Ted Cruz, un-

less it rises from intelligence

disciplined by humbling error,

clobbered about enough on the

practice field and in tutorial,

to emerge by playing fair. And 

then the bracing invigoration of 

the untoward question surpasses

all intimidation. Is the mind 

a lesser gift than my fear, had

not been on my mind. Now the in-

convenient carillon has pitched

that very question, and why are

we so glad?

T.S. Eliot

A Neglected Aspect

  of Chapman

1924

The New York Review of Books

November 7, 2013©

Bastian van Gaalen

Saturday commute xcii: following the ground

Our meadow grasses licked our boots with frost, the seething soil rose earthy to our nostrils, a slant-ing light reflected from the silver as it melted.

Fiano gave way to Barolo.

I'm fine with the font

  

    not so sure

    about the

    punctuation

    

 I doubt if it ends. A blog
 posting sometimes prefig-
 ures, sometimes recalls an
 experience extruded by met-
 aphor. This morning Thorny,
 my English Cocker, exuber-
 ant to be feeling swell af-
 ter a long run in a frosty
 meadow, careened into my
 desk and demolished a clas-
 sic lamp from Artemide, one
 of two from the year of its
 release. A predecessor of
 his, Robbie, munched a first
 edition of Alexander Pope.

 Pillage doesn't have a la-
 tent punctuation, but among
 the options, the full stop
 is the last one imaginable.

 Still, the picture makes a
 point. It can be amusing.

        From the basement there emanated a great brou. Ha ha.
        'They're all there. Down below. Hear them romping a-
        round? They're prehistoric. Because, as I told you,
        to me, billiards ..'




















Raymond Queneau
Zazie dans le métro
Barbara Wright, translation
Penguin, 1960©

Same-old, same-old Curzon Street

  Violating my holiday from

  care, Heywood Hill wrote

  in to announce their new

  website, and I summarily

  offer the penalty of hot

  publicity in the same me-

  dium. We've visited them

  before from this address,

  but this time I leave it

  all up to John le Carré,

  in a well-recollected in-

  stance of intrusion upon

  a fellow's private time.

.. he solemnly set off for

Heywood Hill's bookshop in

Curzon Street, where he oc-

casionally contracted friend-

ly bargains with the prop-

rietor. On the way he became

even more irritable, and from

a call-box sought an appoint-

ment with his solicitor for

that afternoon.

"George, how can you be so vulgar?

Nobody divorces Ann. Send her flow-

ers and come to lunch."

This advice bucked him up and he

approached Heywood Hill with a mer-

ry heart only to walk slap into the

arms of Roddy Martindale emerging

from Trumper's after his weekly

haircut.

Martindale had no valid claim on

Smiley either professionally or

socially. He worked on the fleshy

side of the Foreign Office and his

job consisted of lunching visiting

dignitaries whom no one else would

have entertained in his woodshed ..

He affected buttonholes and pale

suits, and pretended on the flim-

siest grounds to an intimate famil-

iarity with the large back rooms 

of Whitehall.

With due regard for my shameless

fondness for Trumper's Portugal -

a happy evocation of another Age

in California - I credit the nov-

elist for a withering appreciation

of that very same fateful juxtapo-

sition we've all experienced, of

the sublime bookstore and the tem-

ple of vanity. Here was Tillman

Place, there Tiffany; here was

Scott Martin, opposite Wilkes.

This lent many a fanciful jaunt

the flatulence and bad company of

a supererogatory lunch, and not

a reader has lacked for Smiley's

regret of Martindale.

Hurrah for HH, as ever.

John le Carré

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

Penguin Books, 1974©

Christie quits, desiring higher status

The office of the Governor

of New Jersey announced to-

day his retreat from thrust-

ing a celebration of bigotry

before voters in the Garden

State, and abandoning his

appeal to the State's high-

est court, to extend the

exile of same-sex couples 

to second-class status of 

citizenship. For this, he

expects forgetfulness, and

and he'll probably get it,

from himself.

Garden State Equality v. Dow

Saturday commute xci: Smith girl upheld by Tiger

I don't know which is

glossier, the Chief

Justice's summa from

SPIA or the cheekily

ungrammatical backspin

in his return of big-

otry's service.

The state [New Jersey]

has advanced a number

of arguments, but none

of them overcome this

reality: same-sex coup-

les who cannot marry

are not treated equal-

ly under the law today.

The harm to them is

real, not abstract or

speculative.

I wonder how little

Sammy Alito feels to

find his alma mater

unbetrayed.

Chief Justice Stuart Rabner

Garden State Equality v. Dow

The New York Times

October 19, 2013

What are they doing today at Dartmouth, Pa?

5 February 1944

17 October 1969

B.A., 1966

    This is a boy who

    grew up hearing

    Nelson's semaphore

    from Trafalgar, 

    year after year of

    a brief life end-

    ing in the Navy;

    who found a place

    where duty follow-

    ed other expecta-

    tions, and taught

    himself and me a

    better language.

St Émilion and I

  I close for

  October and.

I don't like the sound of

accolades; they commit the

wrong frequencies and amp-

litudes for me and what I

like. I have always absent-

ed myself from stadia when

they're occupied, although

I love an honest contest.

The best things, of course,

are no contest.

Some time ago, when a war

I didn't like was announced

as coming to an end, I was

driving back to Palo Alto

from a trek to a couple of

favourite used-book stores

in Berkeley, and I detoured

off the Bay Bridge to take

a table at Ernie's, of which

you've heard, in Vertigo. I

knew they'd lend me a tie.

The foyer was awash in roses,

as it always was, and incom-

parably comfortable and in-

timate in welcome: a warmth

with no unnecessary word.

I had no doubt of what I'd

eat or what I'd drink. I may

return to the rest someday,

but what mattered was a wine

that had long, long come off

the vines at Château Ausone.

The cellar did not fail, and

that was Ernie's rôle in life,

now defunct of course. I may

revisit that institution here,

as this page may go on.

I am not going to spill ac-

colades on that rapport, and

I'm not going to solicit ex-

citement with vain remarks on

the imperishable. I hold to

too much respect for the au-

tonomy of the palate, and in-

deed of the admirable works

of nature, to treat my reader

to a harangue on discernment.

I believe the ultimate resort

of taste is peace. I know, it

can be crafted, because it is

natural. Such peace is not the

privilege of going unwarred

upon, nor does it roil the air

with triumphs, as much as it

responds to thirst. It can be

tasted, and the taste for it

is not rare. 

i, ii  James Gatenby

iii   St Émilion