Wedding Blues - A Poem

Amedeo Modigliani - Portrait of Lunia Czechowska

Wedding Blues

I must admit that,

after all those years,

spotting you beside the canapés

gave me quite a start.

I mumbled an excuse,

retreated to the bar

and now stand hidden in the crowd

nursing an indifferent Jack and Coke

and a scar

I’ve just discovered,

right below my heart.

How long has it been?

I flip the curl-edged pages of my life

and find us.  Early college days.

Future yet unmapped.

Shared mates, shared classes,

breaks in the canteen.

Bumpy bus-rides all around the town

on evenings when the sun refused to set.

One night, a coy techno-haloed fumble,

and back to our daily selves.

Then, as in a sepia print,

that morning when you stopped seeking me out,

and a mutual friend, whose name I can’t recall

ventured an unsubtle hint

that some guys are heartless, play too hard to get,

or are just too dumb

to know they have struck gold.

It was then it dawned on me

that our manoeuvres in the dark

which I considered a good-natured lark,

might actually have been

that strange, elusive thing called Love.

All told,

I have since then compiled

a trove of such goodbyes -   

an album to dip into on rainy afternoons.

It should have been so easy, then, 

to walk right up to you,

pluck useless, well-worn phrases

out of the fan-cooled air.

“What a surprise!

You getting along?”

“You haven’t changed at all!”

“Looking great, my dear...”

(All true, this, by the by)

Instead, I plan a quick escape,

greet the bride and groom

and head back to my car.

I hold your silhouette and a budding song.

It will, I guess, suffice.

Village Green Preservation Society : A tale of two novels

Village Green Preservation Society

Today’s blogpost brings together my reviews of two very different novels.  One is a whimsical fantasy story featuring antropomorphic bears, written by an author best known for her tales of Gothic horror.   The other is a medieval mystery told in reverse.  Why these two novels are inextricably linked in my mind is anybody’s guess (including mine...).  It possibly has to do with the fact that both are set in isolated villages whose boundaries are set by a river.  Or that both portray society’s where fear of the outside(r) holds sway.  What the two novels surely have in common is that they are well-written and strangely memorable. It’s some time since I read them, and yet, at the most unexpected moments, I find myself revisiting these lost villages...

  

Oothangbart – A Subversive Fable for Adults and Bears

by Rebecca Lloyd

Oothangbart is a strange place. It is somewhat reminiscent of an ancient English village or market town, except that it lies in splendid isolation, surrounded by a river (“long may its waters encircle us!”), its frontiers further confirmed by a frightening forest and a gate at one end to stop the more intrepid amongst the villagers from exploring further. The only link with the outside world is the flotsam and debris occasionally washed up by the river, hinting at the existence of other settlements which the villagers have never seen and which might not even exist. The legendary “Bristol”, for example. 

Within Oothangbart, life is regimented and regimental. Time, in particular, is considered precious and Oothangbart’s inhabitants are obliged to make use of it as the elders dictate. There is also a strict hierarchy, with the Mayor heading a select coterie of officials who make it clear that they rule the roost. Life is designed to be predictable, safe and reassuring – and in such a world, thought and imagination are dangerous.

Most of the citizens are happy to play by the rules, others less so. Take Hutchinson, for instance, who makes it a point to come across as an eccentric loner. Or the novel’s protagonist, one Donal Shaun Hercule Poseidon. Donal sincerely tries to fit in, diligently carrying out his unfulfilling chores at the Department of Found Objects. However, he cannot help dreaming of a different life, and wondering whether the citizens of the outside world (supposing that they exist) have it better. These are dangerous, treasonous thoughts which Donal expresses only in the presence of the closest of friends. Love might have something to do with Donal’s romantic trait. For a long time he has admired Pearl Offering, owner of the village bakery, but he has always been too shy to make the first step. A love letter baring his soul remains, day after day, unsent. 

But things might soon change. Fish have been jumping out of the river and Oothangbart is in turmoil. Donal, who is one of the witnesses of this frightening phenomenon, is catapulted into officialdom and, during a state of emergency, persons who think differently might win the day.

Rebecca Lloyd is best known as an author of dark fiction, with two of her short story collections published by contemporary horror and weird fiction specialists, Tartarus Press. In Oothangbart, however, she opts for a gentler sort of fantasy, a “fable”, as the subtitle itself implies. Oothangbart reiterates what is quite a common literary (and movie) trope, the idea of a “dystopian utopia”, a seemingly perfect community where safety is achieved at the expense of freedom and imagination. What distinguishes this book from others of the sort is its delightful “oddness”. There is quirkiness in the world-building – little touches such as the “Escalator” which the dignitaries of the community ride just to show their importance, or the kite-flying competitions during which the villagers are, albeit briefly, allowed a measure of freedom. There is quirkiness in the characters and in the way they are portrayed, even physically – indeed, it might not be immediately obvious but the inhabitants fo Oothangbart are, in reality, antropomorphic bears. These fantastic elements emphasize the “fable-like” character of the title, which is further conveyed through the imaginative use of archaic-sounding language and expressions which, however, have nothing to do with old English. Thus, all males are “fellows”, females “sweetfellows”, the postman is the “Postal Fellow”. The different times of day have strange names such as “newtime”, “whittletime” or “fishthoughts”. The villagers greet each other with curious sayings – “long may our flags flutter in kindly winds! Long may sweet clouds drift!” Often the main characters indulge in philosophical discussions, hinting at the pressing social concerns underlying this seemingly innocuous fantastic tale.

 
Indeed, the author’s real aims are not far to seek. As Lloyd’s afterword confirms, “Oothangbart” is a satire poking fun at (and occasionally savagely attacking) contemporary society and, particularly, common workplace mores. We live indeed in a context where conformity and productivity are the order of the day and where original thought and imagination are therefore considered “dangerous”. As in Oothangbart’s absurdly inconclusive committee meetings, “group activities” are sometimes merely an excuse in fuelling the self-importance of supposed leaders. I’d like to believe that this is not as pervasive a problem as the author makes it out to be and that there is a place in our world for diverse “fellows” and “sweetfellows” like Donal. But as the characters in the novel ask at one point, what is belief? Is it merely a “hope” to help us get through life? A subversive fable it certainly is... 

Published September 25th 2016 by Pillar international Publishing

The Western Wind

by Samantha Harvey

The Year of Our Lord, 1491. The hundred-or-so villagers of Oakham, in rural Somerset, are celebrating the raucous days of Carnival. This year, however, a tragic occurrence has cast a pall over the revelry. Thomas Newman has disappeared, likely carried away by the churning waters of the river which cuts of the village from the rest of the world. Newman was a relative newcomer to Oakham, having settled there upon the death of his wife and daughter. However, thanks to his financial clout, he acquired much of the surrounding land, meaning that most of the villagers depend upon him for their living. Moreover, despite his unorthodox ideas, he is considered a person bearing moral authority. His sudden death – whether through accident, murder or suicide – can only bring bad tidings to Oakham. Especially since the rural dean has descended on the village to investigate, and there are rumblings of monks setting their sights on Oakham’s fields.

Reading a skeletal outline of the plot, you’d be forgiven for expecting “The Western Wind” to be another “medieval crime novel”. But this is so much more than a “cozy historical mystery”. It is narrated by the village priest, John Reve, who as the repository of Oakham’s secrets, is the closest we get to a detective figure. Interestingly, Reve reveals more about himself than about the villagers – indeed, on one level, this novel could be read as a book-length character study of Reve. He comes across as a person with a mission, one who considers himself as chosen by God, but is torn by feelings of inadequacy. It seems that he is being continuously being weighed (including in a literal sense) and found wanting – whether by his flock, by his ecclesiastical superiors or by God himself. The 'western wind' becomes the metaphor for the deliverance for which Reve prays, to no avail.

A particular characteristic of the novel is the narrative timeline which, in a structure worthy of a Christopher Nolan movie, moves backwards from Shrove Tuesday to the Saturday before. It is a deliberately confusing ploy which leaves the reader feeling thrown into the deep end, much like Newman’s fatal dive into the river. But it’s a brilliant move – as it effectively evokes the feeling of loss and incomprehension shared by the villagers of Oakham.

Early readers praised the novel’s historical accuracy. I do not have enough knowledge of the period to comment about this. However, I did find some aspects of the novel unconvincing. What disturbed me most is the fact that Reve, who otherwise comes across as quite a decent and dedicated priest, displays an uncharacteristically cavalier attitude towards the secret of confession. By the time the events in the novel take place, the gravity of a breach of the “seal of confession” had been established for centuries, with severe canonical and spiritual consequences for whoever went against this strict rule. Yet, Reve lightly discusses penitents’ confessions with his superiors without any feeling of compunction or fear of worldly or otherworldly punishment.

Another slightly puzzling point is that, apart from the “confessions” which are central to the plot, and apart from his ruminations about whether he is a “good enough” shepherd of the Oakham flock, Reve rarely seems to discuss theology, or religious rites, rituals and prayers. Indeed, despite the narrator being a priest and in spite of the fact that the novel touches upon subjects such as faith and superstition, I wouldn’t classify this as a “religious” novel, and it does not delve into the type of theological discourse you will find in novels such as The Diary of a Country Priest, Gilead or, for that matter, the more recent Fire Sermon.

Then again, the feeling I got was that the primary concern of the novel is neither religious nor historical. What the Western Wind gives us instead is a complete immersion into the world conjured by the author. The novel creates an almost physical sense of oppression, of damp, of fetid air; of a sense of poverty and sickness; of helplessness in the face of impending catastrophic change. What counts at the end of the day is not strict historical accuracy - just as the narrative style sounds convincingly “archaic”, without necessarily accurately mimicking 15th century parlance, the novel definitely delivers a sense of “authenticity”.

Hardcover, 304 pages

Published March 1st 2018 by Jonathan Cape

Become Ocean : Ben Smith's "Doggerland"

Become Ocean

Ben Smith's "Doggerland"

Doggerland is the name given in the 1990s to an area of land, now submerged beneath the North Sea, which connected Great Britain to Continental Europe.  Doggerland once extended to modern-day Denmark and far north to the Faroe Islands.  It was a grassland roamed by mammoth, lion, red deer – and their human hunters – but melting ice turned it into an area of marshes and wetlands before it was finally and definitively claimed by the waves around 8,000 years ago. (Incidentally, Doggerland was recently in the news following exciting archaeological discoveries).

The idea of a submerged world resonates with mythical and poetic associations and, as a result, “Doggerland” lends itself well as the title of Ben Smith’s debut novel.   The work, in fact, portrays an unspecified but seemingly not-so-distant future, where global warming and rising sea levels (possibly exacerbated by some other cataclysm) have eroded the coastline and brought to an end civilisation as we know it.  

This strange, new world is made stranger still by the purposely constrained stage against which the narrative plays out.  Smith focuses on two main characters, maintenance men on an enormous wind farm out in the North Sea, who lead a solitary existence on a decrepit rig amongst the rusting turbines.  Although we are given their names, they are generally referred to in the novel as “the Boy” and “the Old Man”.  Early on in the book, we are told that of course, the boy was not really a boy, any more than the old man was all that old; but the names are relative, and out of the grey, some kind of distinction was necessary. It’s a significant observation, because much of the novel’s undeniable power derives from a skilful use of a deliberately limited palette.  The men’s life is marked by a sense of claustrophobia, the burden of an inescapable fate.  The monotony of the routine is only broken by occasional visits of the Supply Boat and its talkative “Pilot”, who is the only link with what remains of the ‘mainland’.  The struggle to keep the turbines working with limited resources becomes an image of the losing battle against the rising oceans, at once awesome and terrible in their vastness.  The Romantic notion of the Sublime is given an environmentalist twist.  One can smell the rust and smell the sea-salt.

Whilst the reader is made to share the ennui of the Boy and his mentor, Smith turns his story into a gripping one by making the most of the scant plot elements. For instance, we are told that the Boy was sent on the rig to replace his father, after the latter’s unsuccessful escape attempt.  What exactly happened remains unclear but, together with the Boy, we glean some disturbing details along the way – in this regard, Smith takes a page out of dystopian post-apocalyptic fiction, and suggests that society has been taken over by some sort of totalitarian regime of whom the Boy’s father was, presumably, a victim.     Part of the pleasure in reading this novel comes from trying to piece together an understanding of what exactly is happening on the mainland, considering that the perspective given to us is that of two people stranded in the middle of nowhere.

At times, Doggerland reminded me of Megan Hunter’s The End We Start From, which also describes a future marked by rising water levels. However, whereas Hunter’s vision, with its images of creation, birth and maternity, is ultimately a hopeful one, Smith’s is devoid of any feminine figure, suggesting a sterility in the human condition which can only lead to its annihilation.   Doggerland is haunting in its bleakness:  The wind blows, the branches creak and turn. Somewhere in the metal forest, a tree slumps, groans but does not quite fall.  The landscape holds fast, for a moment. For how long? It may be centuries. Barely worth mentioning in the lifetime of water...    

Kindle Edition, UK, 208 pages

Expected publication: April 4th 2019 by Fourth Estate

***

As a counterpoint to Ben Smith’s novel, I have chosen three classical works which share a minimalist/post-minimalist aesthetic.

First on the (play)list is “Industry” for amplified cello and electronics (1992) by American composer Michael Gordon (b. 1956), here performed by Ashley Bathgate.  The screeching feedback effects remind me of Doggerland's giant, rusting turbines.

Italian singer-songwriter-composer-artist-director Franco Battiato (b. 1945), with his obsession with Middle Eastern myth and religious traditions, is possibly the last person one would associate with a dystopian, post-apocalyptic novel.  However, his Stockhausen-Prize-winning electronic piece L’Egitto Prima dell Sabbie (Egypt before the Sands), with its obsessive repetition of one simple rising scale, reflects on the one hand the expanse of the sea and, on the other hand, the mind-numbing weariness of the protagonists of Doggerland.  

    

In 2014, American composer John Luther Adams won the Pulitzer Prize for his 40-minute orchestral piece Become Ocean.  Like Doggerland, his piece evokes “the depth of the waves and the spray of the sea.  But it also warns us that ‘as the polar ice melts and sea level rises, we humans find ourselves facing the prospect that once again we may quite literally become ocean’.  You can listen to the piece here (performed by the Seattle Symphony Orchestra) and read about it on the brilliant Corymbus classical music blog.

Theatre of War : a review of An Untouched House

 An Untouched House by Willem Frederik Hermans 

(translated from the Dutch by David Colmer)

How best to convey, in writing, the indescribable horrors of war? Some authors place us in the midst of the battlefield, on the front line, in the trenches. Others take us to blitzed and occupied cities, with tales of ordinary lives in extraordinary circumstances. Others discern some light in the darkness of the carnage – acts of valour, of compassion, of kindness which provide a welcome contrast to the bloodshed. 

The novels of Dutch author Willem Frederik Hermans show us “the absurdity, cruelty and pointlessness of war”, as Cees Nooteboom explains in the afterword to this edition of “An Untouched House”. For Hermans, war is just another facet of what he considered a “sadistic Universe”. There is therefore a metaphysical, cosmic underpinning to the author’s work, and it is unremittingly bleak.

This novella, first published in 1951, is now available to English readers in a translation by David Colmer. This might be a book about war, but its setting is surprisingly distant from any ‘traditional’ battle, at least at first. The unnamed narrator, a Dutch member of the resistance, finds himself in a deserted spa town and discovers an abandoned, palatial house, seemingly untouched by the fighting. He deserts his fellow combatants and installs himself in it.

 
There is something surreal about the house. With its magical feel and its mysterious locked room, it seems to come out of a fairytale, not unlike the ‘lost chateau’ in Le Grand Meaulnes. It is hardly surprising then the narrator starts to believe that he will be safe from harm as long as he remains within it. But even this house will become a theatre of war. When the house is requisitioned by the German troops occupying the town, the narrator wildly holds on to his fantasy by pretending he is the owner. Eventually the Nazis are ousted by the Russian troops, aided by the Resistance. And so it is that the real world dispels the protagonist’s dreams, and what initially seemed a setting peripheral to the conflict is also touched by the “sadism of the Universe”.

Indeed, a defining element of this novel is its unrelenting violence, which reaches gut-wrenching levels in the final pages. Tinged with black humour and purposely over the top, the novel’s climax reads like a scene out of a Tarantino movie. No side is spared any punches: not the German soldiers, disseminating fear whilst acting as self-proclaimed defenders of “culture”; not the Russians or the partisans, at whose hands the town collapses into chaos. No wonder this novel made its author unpopular in some quarters. It is a veritable kick in the guts, a powerful indictment of war.

Published: 23rd October 2018 by Archipelago Books

There are several pieces of classical music which depict the futility of war.  I have chosen four works with a link to the Second World War.  Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem (1961-62) was commissioned and performed for the consecration of the new Coventry Cathedral, built on the bombed wreck of the original 14^th century building.  This is a full performance conducted by Marin Alsop, given at the Southbank Centre in November 2014.

The Requiem of Reconciliation was a collaborative work written to commemorate the 50^th anniversary of the end of the Second World War.  Each of its fourteen sections is written by a different composer from a country involved in the war.  This is the Confutatis Maledictis  movement, by Norwegian composer Arne Nordheim.

My final choice, however, is probably the piece which best reflects the senseless violence of the final pages of Hermans’s novel.  Ironically, Penderecki’s Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima was originally called 8'37" and was meant as an ‘abstract’ piece of experimental music.  The composer claims that he added the title upon hearing the music in performance and noting its “emotional impact”.   It is considered a masterpiece of 60s European avant-garde.  Here's a version with accompanying score.  

Water World : "The End We Start From" by Megan Hunter

Water World 

"The End We Start From" by Megan Hunter

A review

At one level, this beguiling debut novel(la) by Megan Hunter can be enjoyed as a work of science fiction, or even as a Mieville-like piece of "new weird". Its setting is a contemporary London made strange by an inexplicable environmental phenomenon - the waters are rising, swallowing cities and towns and bringing about social mayhem. Right at the onset of the deluge, the narrator gives birth to a son - Z. Days later, mother and child have to head to the North to avoid the advancing waters. What follows is a sort of "Baby's First Album" with a post-apocalyptic twist, the child's perfectly natural struggle for survival mirrored by society's attempt to adapt to a new way of life. The link between the two lies in the recurring water imagery - Z's birth in the very first page is marked, of course, by a "breaking of the waters" ("I am waterless, the pool of myself spreading slowly past my toes") reflecting the ominous "waters" which are threatening the city. The novella is, in a way, a celebration of new motherhood but, thanks to its dystopian backdrop, it eschews sentimentality leaving only a warm, essential humanity.

Some early reviewers of this book were seemingly put off by the spareness of the prose; others were struck by a sense that the premise of the novel was not fully realised. Admittedly, several details are left undefined and the plot (if one can speak of one) could be summarised in a half-page paragraph (in large font...). However, I felt that Hunter was aiming for the pregnant conciseness of poetry, preferring metaphor and allusion to a more typical working-out of characters and storyline. (She is, after all, a poet). Indeed, I often found myself re-reading certain passages, delighted by a surprising image or turn of phrase. 

I also think that there is in the writing a deliberate attempt to reference mythological storytelling, and to make of this tale a sort of universal parable. Thus, although we get to share some of the characters' most intimate moments, they are only identified by a letter (for instance, the narrator's husband is "R", his parents "G" and "N"). We know that the boy is named "Zeb" (which, incidentally, means "wolf", surely no coincidence) but from then on he is referred to as "Z" (last letter of the alphabet - possibly, the end we start from?) The mythical element is also emphasized through strange italicized passages interspersed in the text, which seem to mimic Biblical apocalyptic imagery.  Just to give a taste:

In these days we shall look up and see the sun roaming across the night and the grass rising up. The people will cry without end, and the moon will sink from view

I read the book in a couple of sittings but I suspect that, like poetry, it merits to be revisited for it to further reveal its mysteries.  Megan Hunter has stated that she's working on two new novel.s  I'm certainly looking forward to them!

Kindle Edition, 160 pages

Published May 18th 2017 by Picador

On Spotify I came across the following playlist of songs which apparently inspired the author whilst she was writing her book.  Thanks to Belletrist Books for compiling and happy listening! 

Ghosts of Evils Past : Susan Fletcher's House of Glass

Ghosts of Evils Past 

House of Glass by Susan Fletcher - A review

A house is meant to be a place of safety and intimacy.  The haunted house is a powerful symbol of horror precisely because it shows us a haven of domesticity upturned by an intruder, and a supernatural one at that.  It is hardly surprising that from being just one of many Gothic tropes, the haunted house eventually became the basis of a rich supernatural sub-genre. 

House of Glass is a historical novel within this tradition.  It is set just before the outbreak of the First World War and features a sprawling mansion – Shadowbrook – marked by dark, old rumours about its previous owners, the evil and hated Pettigrew family.  The last Pettigrew to inhabit Shadowbrook was the sensual, decadent and possibly mad Veronique - her ghost still walks its corridors and the pages of this book.   So far, so familiar.  Indeed, this novel shares many elements with other books within the (sub-)genre.   It has been compared to Du Maurier’s Rebecca but I would say that its mixture of Gothic thrills, historical novel and social commentary is closer in spirit to Sarah Water’s The Little Stranger.  What makes House of Glass particularly original is its protagonist and narrator, Clara Waterfield.  Conceived out of wedlock in India, and born in England where her mother Charlotte is dispatched to avoid a scandal, Clara suffers from osteogenesis imperfecta or “brittle bones disease”, a condition which causes fractures at the least pressure or impact. As a result, Clara lives a secluded London childhood, fiercely protected by her parents.  The premature death of her mother thrusts Clara into adulthood. Notwithstanding her syndrome, her walking cane and ungainly gait, Clara ventures out into the world.  The gardens at Kew become her refuge and she finds herself turning into an amateur botanist – “amateur” in the best sense of the word, that of a lover of knowledge.  This earns her the respect, friendship and support of Forbes, the foreman of the glasshouses.  It also leads to an unexpected invitation.  One day, Clara is summoned to Gloucestershire by the new owner of Shadowbrook, to oversee the installation of exotic plants from Kew in a new greenhouse in the mansion’s gardens.     

It is here that the ghost story proper begins.  Clara finds herself surrounded by mystery and secrets, by things that go bump in the night and malevolent attacks by an unseen visitor.  The housekeeper and maids cower in fear of the ghost of Veronique Pettigrew, a woman seemingly so evil that a mere mention of her name is enough to unleash poltergeist activity.  Clara is sceptical but her rationalist approach is put under severe test.  That summer will mark her coming to age, as she questions long-held certainties and beliefs whilst going through a sexual awakening.

At one level, House of Glass is enjoyable as a good old piece of storytelling.  But there is so much more to it.  What struck me at first is the blend of realism and the supernatural.   Shadowbrook and its gardens are inspired by the real-life Hidcote Manor Garden (a National Trust property in Gloucestershire) and this setting is lovingly and minutely described.  At the same time, Fletcher uses small details (closed, dust-filled rooms; peeling paint; a blood-stained billiard table) to evoke an atmosphere of fear and dread.  The scene has already been set for the nocturnal visitations which considerably ratchet up the tension.    

The Old Garden at Hidcote (image taken from National Trust webpage)

The novel also manages to take an established form and inject it with a strong dose of feminism.  Clara’s condition becomes a symbol of  female rebellion and resistance, her physical imperfections as transgressive as her assertiveness and inquisitiveness.  There is a parallel between the “cripple” Clara and the uniquely beautiful Veronique, both of them strong women trying to hold their own in a patriarchal society.  Clara ruefully notes that despite the fact that the male Pettigrews were violent and criminal, it was Veronique and her ‘sex orgies’ which gripped the attention of the sleepy village where she lived and which marked her forever as an epitome of immorality.  This leads to another theme which is central to the novel, namely that of truth and falsehood, and how accounts can be manipulated to propagate the world-view favoured by their narrator.

My only reservation as I was reading the novel was that there were a number of narrative gear-changes late in the book.  Engrossing as it is, the plot moves forward at a leisurely pace until about three-quarters in, when a raft of unexpected revelations propel the tale forward and lead us closer to the “sensation novel”.  In the final chapters then, there is yet another shift, as the work ends with a meditation on war.  The more I think about it, however, the more I tend to feel that my initial doubts were unfounded – the different facets of House of Glass ultimately add up to a convincing whole, held together by Fletcher’s lyrical and elegiac writing style.  For this is also a story about the passing of an era, and what are ghosts if not remnants, in one way or another, of a half-remembered past?  

Hardcover, 368 pages

Published November 1st 2018 by Virago

***

The English musical scene at the start of the twentieth century was going through a veritable Renaissance.  I was therefore spoilt for choice when selecting some tracks to accompany my reading of House of Glass. 

Despite the novel being set entirely in England, India remains very much in the background, a place which Clara associates with her mother and her unkown, distant past.  In this respect, the novel reflects the concerns of Imperial Gothic, particularly that underlying sense of guilt associated with Empire which has tended to become more accentuated in a post-colonial era.  Yet, in the years of the British Raj, there were artists who had a genuine interest in Indian and more generally Eastern traditions, one which went beyond the mere lure of the Exotic.    For instance, Gustav Holst (1874-1934), best known as the composer of “The Planets”, retained a lifelong curiosity about Eastern philosophy, beliefs and musical traditions, engaging with them in several works including Choral Hymns from the Rig Veda.

Clara never gets to visit India (at least within the pages of the novel).  Ironically, however, even her childhood experiences of London are vicarious.  Her condition keeps her bedridden for long periods of time such that even the city where she lives appears to her like a distant land.  Of course, as L.P. Hartley reminds us, the past is itself a foreign country – Ralph Vaughan Williams’s second symphony – “London” – is inspired by the sights and sounds of the city.  First composed in 1912, it gives us a taste of the capital at the time of the novel’s events – this particular presentation is enhanced by photos from the era.

Shadowbrook – and its inspiration, Hidcote – are situated in Gloucestershire.  Gloucestershire Rhapsody (1919-1921) is an orchestral work by the poet and composer Ivor Gurney (1890-1937).  Gurney suffered from bipolar disorder, a condition exacerbated by his harrowing experiences in the First World War (he was a victim of a gas attack).  

Many other artists, writers and composers did not survive the war.  Amongst these was one of the most promising musicians of the early 20th century – George Butterworth (1885-1916), who was shot through the head by a sniper during the Battle of the Somme. Butterworth – hailed on his death as “a brilliant musician in times of peace, and an equally brilliant soldier in times of stress”  - is known for his settings of poetry from Housman’s “A Shropshire Lad”.  These poems  were in turn inspired by the Second Boer War - the song "The lads in their hundreds" tells of young men who leave their homeland to 'die in their glory and never be old' and, with the benefit of hindsight, seems uncannily prescient of Butterworth’s own destiny.  This performance seems to me to capture not only the thoughts of Housman and Butterworth, but also the nostalgic mood of the final chapter of House of Glass.