Archive for the 'Uncategorised' Category
“To a Fish
You strange, astonished-looking, angle-faced,
Dreary-mouthed, gaping wretches of the sea,
Gulping salt-water everlastingly,
Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced,
And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste;
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be –
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,
Legless, unloving, infamously chaste –
O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights,
What is’t ye do? what life lead? eh, dull goggles?
How do ye vary your vile days and nights?
How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles
In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and bites,
And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?
A Fish Answers
Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,
With the first sight of thee didst make our race
Forever stare! Oh flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou that on dry land horribly dost go
With a split body and most ridiculous pace,
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finned, haired, upright, unwet, slow!
O breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air,
How canst exist? How bear thyself, thou dry
And dreary sloth? What particle canst share
Of the only blessed life, the watery?
I sometimes see of ye an actual pair
Go by! linked fin by fin! most odiously.
The Fish Turns into a Man, and then into a Spirit, and again Speaks
Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still,
O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love;
For difference must its use by difference prove,
And, in sweet clang, the spheres with music fill.
One of the spirits am I, that at his will
Live in whate’er has life – fish, eagle, dove –
No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above,
A visitor of the rounds of God’s sweet skill.
Man’s life is warm, glad, sad, ’twixt loves and graves,
Boundless in hope, honoured with pangs austere,
Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves: –
The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear,
A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapped in round waves,
Quickened with touches of transporting fear.”
Leigh Hunt’s remarkable The Fish, the Man, and the Spirit (1836), quoted (or most of it) in one of John Julius Norwich’s Crackers (last post but one).
The useless fins, ie arms, are presumably genetically descended from real ones, and the creatures which came out of the sea did have to adapt to breathing sword-sharp air (quite an ordeal), so these lines have an almost, if prematurely, Darwinian feel.
He appends a note:
“As the transition from the ludicrous to the grave, in these verses, might otherwise appear too violent, the reader will permit me to explain how they arose. The first sonnet was suggested by a friend’s laughing at a description I was giving him of the general aspect of fish (in which, by the way, if anybody is curious, let him get acquainted with them in Mr. Yarrell’s excellent work on ‘British Fishes,’ now in course of publication [Yarrell knew Darwin]); the second sonnet, being a lover of fair play, I thought but a just retort to be allowed to those fellow-creatures of ours, who so differ with us in eyeballs and opinions; and the third, not liking to leave a quarrel unsettled, and having a tendency to push a speculation as far as it will go, especially into those calm and heavenward regions from which we always return the better, if we calmly enter them, naturally became as serious as the peace of mind is, with which all speculations conclude that have harmony and lovingness for their real object. The fish, in his retort, speaks too knowingly of his human banterer, for a fish; but it will be seen, that a Spirit animates him for the purpose.”
Image: boingboing.net, artist not stated, but Jessie Willcox Smith, illustration for The Water Babies
Georges Simenon’s 192 proper novels (not story collections or anything else) written under his own name. The list shows the order of publication even within a year. This is well under half his output.
Gide: “Je tiens Simenon pour un grand romancier, le plus grand peut-être et le plus vraiment romancier que nous ayons en littérature française aujourd’hui.” Cahiers du Nord double issue, 1939. The statement is usually misquoted or mistranslated.
- Monsieur Gallet, décédé 1931
- Le pendu de Saint-Pholien 1931
- Le charretier de « La Providence » 1931
- La chien jaune 1931
- Pietr-le-Letton 1931
- La nuit du carrefour 1931
- Un crime en Hollande 1931
- Au rendez-vous des Terre-Neuvas 1931
- Le tête d’un homme 1931
- Le relais d’Alsace 1931
- La danseuse du Gai-Moulin 1931
- La guinguette à deux sous 1931
- L’ombre chinoise 1932
- L’affaire Saint-Fiacre 1932
- Chez les Flamands 1932
- Le fou de Bergerac 1932
- Le port des brumes 1932
- Le passager du « Polarlys » 1932
- Liberty Bar 1932
- Les fiançailles de Mr. Hire (M. Hire in later editions) 1933
- Le coup de lune 1933
- La maison du canal 1933
- L’écluse n° 1 1933
- L’Âne-Rouge 1933
- Les gens d’en face 1933
- Le haut-mal 1933
- L’homme de Londres 1933
- Maigret 1934
- Le locataire 1934
- Les suicidés 1934
- Les Pitard 1935
- Les clients d’Avrenos 1935
- Quartier nègre 1935
- L’évadé 1936
- Long cours 1936
- Les demoiselles de Concarneau 1936
- 45° à l’ombre 1936
- Le testament Donadieu 1937
- L’assassin 1937
- Le blanc à lunettes 1937
- Faubourg 1937
- Ceux de la soif 1938
- Chemin sans issue 1938
- Les rescapés du « Télémaque » 1938
- Les trois crimes de mes amis 1938
- Le suspect 1938
- Les sœurs Lacroix 1938
- Touriste de bananes ou Les dimanches de Tahiti 1938
- Monsieur La Souris 1938
- La marie du port 1938
- L’homme qui regardait passer les trains 1938
- Le Cheval-Blanc 1938
- Le Coup-de-Vague 1939
- Chez Krull 1939
- Le bourgmestre de Furnes 1939
- Malempin 1940
- Les inconnus dans la maison 1940
- Cour d’assises 1941
- Bergelon 1941
- L’outlaw 1941
- Il pleut, bergère … 1941
- Le voyageur de la « Toussaint » 1941
- La maison des sept jeunes filles 1941
- Oncle Charles s’est enfermé 1942
- La veuve Couderc 1942
- Cécile est morte 1942
- Les caves du Majestic 1942
- La maison du juge 1942
- Le fils Cardinaud 1942
- La verité sur Bébé Donge 1942
- Signé Picpus 1944
- L’Inspecteur Cadavre 1944
- Félicie est là 1944
- Le rapport du gendarme 1944
- La fenêtre des Rouet 1945
- La fuite de Monsieur Monde 1945
- L’aîné des Ferchaux 1945
- Les noces de Poitiers 1946
- Trois chambres à Manhattan 1946
- Le cercle des Mahé 1946
- Au bout du rouleau 1947
- Maigret se fâche 1947
- Maigret à New-York 1947
- Lettre à mon juge 1947
- Le clan des Ostendais 1947
- Le destin des Malou 1947
- Le passager clandestin 1947
- Le bilan Malétras 1948
- La Jument-Perdue 1948
- Maigret et son mort 1948
- Les vacances de Maigret 1948
- La neige était sale 1948
- Pedigree 1948
- Le fond de la bouteille 1949
- La première enquête de Maigret 1949
- Les fantômes du chapelier 1949
- Mon ami Maigret 1949
- Le quatre jours d’un pauvre homme 1949
- Maigret chez le coroner 1949
- Un nouveau dans la ville 1950
- Maigret et la vieille dame 1950
- L’amie de Madame Maigret 1950
- L’enterrement de Monsieur Bouvet 1950
- Les volets verts 1950
- Tante Jeanne 1951
- Les mémoires de Maigret 1951
- Le temps d’Anaïs 1951
- Maigret au Picratt’s 1951
- Maigret en meublé 1951
- Une vie comme neuve 1951
- Maigret et la grande perche 1951
- Marie qui louche 1952
- Maigret, Lognon et les gangsters 1952
- La mort de Belle 1952
- Le revolver de Maigret 1952
- Les frères Rico 1952
- Maigret et l’homme du banc 1953
- Antoine et Julie 1953
- Maigret a peur 1953
- L’escalier de fer 1953
- Feux rouges 1953
- Maigret se trompe 1953
- Crime impuni 1954
- Maigret à l’école 1954
- Maigret et la jeune morte 1954
- L’horloger d’Everton 1954
- Le grand Bob 1954
- Maigret chez le ministre 1954
- Maigret et le corps sans tête 1955
- Les témoins 1955
- La boule noire 1955
- Maigret tend un piège 1955
- Les complices 1956
- En cas de malheur 1956
- Un échec de Maigret 1956
- Le petit homme d’Arkhangelsk 1956
- Maigret s’amuse 1957
- Le fils 1957
- Le nègre 1957
- Maigret voyage 1957
- Strip-Tease 1958
- Les scruples de Maigret 1958
- Le président 1958
- Le passage de la ligne 1958
- Maigret et les témoins récalcitrants 1959
- Une confidence de Maigret 1959
- La vieille 1959
- Le veuf 1959
- Dimanche 1959
- Maigret aux assises 1960
- L’ours en peluche 1960
- Maigret et les vieillards 1960
- Betty 1961
- Le train 1961
- Maigret et le voleur parasseux 1961
- La porte 1962
- Les autres 1962
- Maigret et les braves gens 1962
- Maigret et le client de samedi 1962
- Maigret et le clochard 1963
- Les anneaux de Bicêtre 1963
- La colère de Maigret 1963
- La chambre bleue 1964
- L’homme au petit chien 1964
- Maigret et le fantôme 1964
- Maigret se défend 1964
- Le petit saint 1965
- Le train de Venise 1965
- La patience de Maigret 1965
- Le confessionnal 1966
- La mort d’Auguste 1966
- Maigret et l’affaire Nahour 1966
- Le chat 1967
- Le voleur de Maigret 1967
- Le déménagement 1967
- Maigret à Vichy 1968
- La prison 1968
- Maigret hésite 1968
- La main 1968
- L’ami d’enfance de Maigret 1968
- Il y a encore des noisetiers 1969
- Novembre 1969
- Maigret et le tueur 1969
- Maigret et le marchand de vin 1970
- Le riche homme 1970
- La folle de Maigret 1970
- La disparition d’Odile 1971
- Maigret et l’homme tout seul 1971
- La cage de verre 1971
- Maigret et l’indicateur 1971
- Les innocents 1972
- Maigret et Monsieur Charles 1972
Back September 28.
Back August 3.
On which note:
Back July 20.
Pluto shouldn’t really be there without Eris, Makemake, Haumea and Ceres, but he was part of the family from 1930 to 2006.
Back July 6.
Back June 22.
The Wagon Passes, from Elgar, Nursery Suite. Ulster Orchestra, Bryden Thomson.
Or, as Elgar actually wrote, The Waggon (Passes).
Vaughan Williams, 1954. Patrick Harrild, tuba; London Symphony Orchestra, Bryden Thomson.
Prelude: Allegro moderato
Romanza: Andante sostenuto
Finale: Rondo alla tedesca, allegro.
Odi et amo: quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
[Footnote: Catullus, Q. V.: Carmina, No. lxxxv.]
“I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why.
I do not know, but I feel it happen and I am torn apart.”
A Study of History, Vol VIII, OUP, 1954
“Eschew a line of study in which the work done dies together with the worker.” [Footnote: “Fuggi quello studio del quale la resultante opera more insieme coll’ operante d’essa” – Leonardo da Vinci, in The Literary Works of Leonardo da Vinci, compiled and edited from the original MSS. by J. P. Richter, 2nd ed. (Oxford 1939, University Press, 2 vols.), vol. ii, p. 244, No. 1169.]
So don’t blog. There are no defences against the whims of providers and obsolescence of software.
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954
German ack-ack (anti-aircraft fire) audible during a performance of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto: Walter Gieseking, Grosses Berliner Rundfunk Orchester, Artur Rother. Saal No 1, Haus des Rundfunks (Reichsender Berlin), Berlin, January 23 1945.
This was the very day on which Russian troops crossed the Oder, and the day of the execution of Helmuth James Graf von Moltke.
You hear it at around 13:30 and 16:50 in the first movement and perhaps earlier. I am not sure that there is anything in the later movements. Can you also hear bombs? More below.
The performance was, we are told, a rehearsal and never broadcast. It is said to be the only complete wartime recording of any classical work in stereo.
Who was doing the bombing? Both dates were after the main raids of 1943-44. The USAAF had often bombed by day, the RAF by night. Was that the case here and do we know the time of day of the recording?
Is there a chance that this was directed at the Red Air Force as the Russians approached?
Related post: Bernstein, Barenboim, Ceauşescu.
Machiavelli consulting his Livy and Rousseau his Plutarch and De Gobineau his Sturlason and Hitler his Wagner were each led, by his respective literary or musical oracle, to the altar-steps of the same Abomination of Desolation: the Totalitarian Parochial State.
A Study of History, Vol IV, OUP, 1939
Back April 7.
Louise Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, Self-portrait in a straw hat, 1782, normally in the National Gallery, now in the Rubens exhibition at the Royal Academy (which is only 25% Rubens); she died in Paris in 1842; here are her memoirs
John Singer Sargent, Dr Pozzi at home, 1881, normally at the Armand Hammer Museum, Los Angeles, now in the Sargent exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery; Dr Pozzi was considered the father of French gynaecology; he was shot dead in Paris by a male patient in 1918; see doctorpozzi.com
The end of Stravinsky’s Apollon musagète. Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra, Yevgeny Mravinsky.
Back February 14.
Back February 6.
Back January 10.
Michael Kennedy is a great loss.
Interview by Ivan Hewett of the Telegraph in early 2014.
If you took any interest in Barbirolli, Boult, Britten, Elgar, the Hallé, Mahler, Manchester, Strauss, Vaughan Williams or Walton, Michael Kennedy was part of your life.
“I could never understand,” Henderson quotes him as saying on Elgar, “how people could not hear the unhappiness that was always there for me in his music. I never read about that Elgar, so I thought I’d better write a book myself.” Kennedy’s marvellous Portrait of Elgar was an advance on everything previously written. He needed to write the book. I needed to read it.
I recognise what the Telegraph tells us about, including even his waspishness. But the sting was mild. What does it take to be an artist’s friend? Whatever it is, Kennedy had it. He was a close friend of Vaughan Williams during VW’s last years. He knew Barbirolli equally well. He had the measure of them and was the appointed biographer of both. He was not only a critic, he was a full journalist, editor of the Manchester edition of the Daily Telegraph from 1960 until it closed in 1986. His strength as a friend may have been a weakness as a critic. “My biggest failing as a critic is that I like music too much.”
I seem to remember that he stopped reviewing for Gramophone circa 1990 because at the height of the CD era he was given one perfectly acceptable recording of Don Juan after another, about which there was nothing much more to say.
There was a steeliness and stature in Kennedy, despite the unassumingness. It wasn’t reflected glory. I don’t think people felt it because he had known great men.
I had the privilege of meeting him and his wife, Joyce, at a semi-private commemoration of Susana Walton in 2011. He made a point of introducing her. She was from Hull. He married her after his invalid first wife Eslyn died, just as RVW had married Ursula after his invalid wife Adeline died.
He expressed some doubts, in our short conversation, about Tippett’s music, and, to my surprise, hadn’t been aware that there was a CD of Karajan playing Walton’s first symphony live with the Orchestra della radiotelevisione Italiana, Rome (it isn’t a revelatory performance). He must have known from Richard Osborne’s Conversations with Karajan that Karajan had a certain regard for Walton. I bought another copy of the CD afterwards, intending to send it to him, but I never did. I have it still as a spare.
Telegraph obituary: “He would rail against critics of musical elitism, accusing them of failing to aspire to high standards. ‘I want things to be elitist,’ he told Michael Henderson in 2001. ‘These days it seems that people don’t want to put any effort into understanding something.’”
I have delivered a more waspish version of that occasionally. All people who love music want to share it, but to those who say “You mustn’t be intimidated”, I have snapped “But you should be intimidated. You should be scared out of your wits.”
I will quote Michael Kennedy in future posts. He died on the last day of the Strauss anniversary.
Telegraph, op cit: “He heard [the Hallé] for the last time in November, at a concert conducted by Elder. He was frail, effectively lame, but music always restored his spirits. A programme of Butterworth, Bax and (of course) Elgar was capped by a marvellous performance of Sibelius’s fifth symphony. ‘What a work!’ he said as he was helped to his feet afterwards. And with that simple expression of gratitude, a lifetime’s dedication to music reached its end.”
Bronze by Cecile Elstein
A reminder of how lucid he was. Antony (sic) Hopkins (obiit May 6 2014), was one of the great educators. He was a writer and broadcaster about Western classical music and a composer of operas, at least one ballet, and film scores. What people remember him for was the radio programme Talking about Music, on the BBC Third Programme and later Radio 3 and later Radio 4, from 1954 to ’92. It was syndicated, apparently, to 44 countries. There is somebody in Iran today who remembers him.
Beulah have released six of these talks as downloads at Beulah and iTunes: on Franck’s Symphonic Variations, Beethoven’s 5th, Elgar’s Enigma, Mozart’s Jupiter, Beethoven’s violin concerto, Rachmaninov’s second piano concerto. Here’s the Rachmaninov (whose middle movement was used in Brief Encounter):
On Beethoven’s 5th, from an old LP:
On Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto, via Radio 5, Singapore Broadcasting Corporation:
Date of the Beethoven symphony 1959, of other two not stated.
Back December 27.
Elgar, 1892, from Seven Lieder, published 1907. Poem by Francis Quarles (1592-1644) called Hos ego versiculos; also attributed to Simon Wastell (1560-1635) with the name The flesh profiteth nothing. August 4 2013, Dutch Music Barn, (dutchmusicbarn.com), Jacobine van Laar soprano, Marisa Thornton-Wood piano.
The piano clangs rather at the start (David Owen Norris is also manic here), but nicely enough sung.
Tchaikovsky, from The Nutcracker. 1892. Performers not stated.
Back November 27.
An idolization of Man by Man himself, which is patently ridiculous when the idol is some individual mannikin, may be more specious when the blasphemous worship is paid to some collective Leviathan. Yet the state-worship that a post-Christian Western Society commended as “patriotism” and the church-worship that it denigrated as “fanaticism” both turn as bitter on the palate as the hero-worship of an Alexander, Hitler, Caesar, or Napoleon.
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954
Muqaddamāt, de Slane’s translation (Paris 1863-8, Imprimerie Impériale, 3 vols.), vol ii, pp. 366-7; chapter headed: “He who possesses the capacity for practising some particular art very rarely manages to acquire another art perfectly […]”:
“A tailor, for instance, who possesses a capacity for sewing, who uses it with the greatest skill, who is really a master of his art, and who has made it part and parcel of himself, will be unable afterwards to acquire, to perfection, the art of being a cabinet-maker or a mason. If he did achieve this, that would mean that he did not yet possess, to perfection, the former capacity; it would mean that the dye of that capacity in him had not yet taken fast. Here is the explanation: it is that the capacities – being attributes of the Soul or colours which the Soul is apt to take – cannot overlay one another on the Soul and can only settle on the Soul one at a time. In order to acquire a capacity easily, and to be in a favourable condition for the reception of it, the Soul must be in the primitive state of its nature. Afterwards, when it takes the colour of this or that capacity, it departs from its primitive state; and, since the tincture which has now just been imparted to it is bound to have weakened in the Soul its aptitude for receiving another tincture, the Soul no longer has as much strength as before for acquiring a second faculty.”
A Study of History, Vol V, OUP, 1939 (footnote)
Giovanni Battista Moroni painted his noble tailor c 1565-70 in his native Albino. He worked only there and in Trent and Bergamo. An Ingres three centuries earlier.
Some have suggested that the tailor really was a nobleman. The greenish tinge to the face is in the original. He is wearing the very full, loose breeches known in English as galligaskins, which must have been ribbed or stuffed, and an undyed jacket.
National Gallery, London. Moroni at the RA, to January 25.
Vasari doesn’t mention Moroni in his Lives. Nor does Reynolds in his RA lectures. My great-grandfather, George Clausen, a Victorian who, like Reynolds, never mentioned Caravaggio, does mention him in his RA lectures. Moroni (like Velasquez, Lorenzo Lotto, Veronese, Frans Hals) followed the fine middle course which he himself tried to follow, between “the realism of externals” (bad painting in Clausen’s time) and “the realism of expression or character” (brought to a high level in their late works by Titian, Tintoretto, Rembrandt).
Below, Clausen’s portrait of Thomas Okey, Master of the Art Workers Guild in 1914, where one can perhaps see what he is aiming at. As in most of Moroni’s portraits, the background is grey. It has a fine sobriety. Clausen painted good portraits of craftsmen and family members (and, earlier, of rural workers) and a few dull ones of officials. Okey was from the East End and was helped by Toynbee Hall. He worked for thirty years not as a tailor, but as a basket-maker in Spitalfields, and rose to become, in 1919, when there was more social mobility than now, the first Professor of Italian at Cambridge.
Excuse cropping: best image I have.
Back October 31.
Would anyone go to a blockbuster still life exhibition? I would, even if by the end I longed to escape and hungered for a landscape or figure. It’s hard to find a book on still life, but it might be soothing to indulge oneself in something so limited. Still life, or it could equally be Roman Britain, the history of Australia, French tapestries or the Palliser novels.
Small differences would become important. And there’s a lost language of allegory and symbols to learn.
And seventeenth-century lemons, pomegranates, loaves and fish have more DNA, more layers of reality, than their etiolated supermarket descendants.
We rarely see a butcher (or butchery, as they call them in Africa), never mind abattoir. In the middle east, even urban families are about to start slaughtering animals in their own bathrooms for Eid al-Adha.
Jacopo da Empoli (1551-1640), Still Life (c 1625)
Luis Meléndez (1716-80), Still Life with Apples, Grapes, Melons, Bread, Jug and Bottle
Odilon Redon (1840-1916), Flowers (1903)
George Clausen (1852-1944), Michaelmas Daisies and Cornflowers in a Jug (1940), exuberant piece painted at the age of 88
The Chinese Pot (still life by Clausen, old post).
Top three: teacher, architect, doctor.
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken,
Or like stout Cortez when, with eagle eyes,
He stared at the Pacific, and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise,
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Keats, of course. From On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer. A Petrarchan sonnet written in iambic pentameters.
The planet was Uranus, identified by Hershel in 1781, the year of the Iron Bridge, before Keats was born, and the first to be added to the list since antiquity. It is visible to the naked eye, but had been thought to be a star.
The discovery of four moons of Jupiter by Galileo, and of five of Saturn, one by Huygens, four by Cassini, preceded Hershel’s discovery. Jupiter’s Ganymede and Callisto may just be visible with the naked eye.
Herschel went on, after a few years, to discover two Uranian moons, followed by two more of Saturn.
The first four asteroids were discovered during Keats’s boyhood. Three of them are at the extreme margin of visibility with the naked eye. The first was observed on the first day of the nineteenth century.
The first Europeans to see the east coast of the Pacific were members of Vasco Núñez de Balboa’s expedition. Wikipedia: “Keats had been reading William Robertson’s History of America and […] conflated two scenes there described: Balboa’s finding of the Pacific  and Cortés’s first view of the Valley of Mexico . The Balboa passage: ‘At length the Indians assured them, that from the top of the next mountain they should discover the ocean which was the object of their wishes. When, with infinite toil, they had climbed up the greater part of the steep ascent, Balboa commanded his men to halt, and advanced alone to the summit, that he might be the first who should enjoy a spectacle which he had so long desired. As soon as he beheld the South Sea [Mar del Sur] stretching in endless prospect below him, he fell on his knees, and lifting up his hands to Heaven, returned thanks to God, who had conducted him to a discovery so beneficial to his country, and so honourable to himself. His followers, observing his transports of joy, rushed forward to join in his wonder, exultation, and gratitude’ (Vol. III).”
“Keats’ generation was familiar enough with the polished literary translations of John Dryden and Alexander Pope, which gave Homer an urbane gloss similar to Virgil, but expressed in blank verse or heroic couplets. Chapman’s vigorous and earthy paraphrase (1616) was put before Keats by Charles Cowden Clarke, a friend from his days as a pupil at a boarding school in Enfield Town. They sat up together till daylight to read it: ‘Keats shouting with delight as some passage of especial energy struck his imagination. At ten o’clock the next morning, Mr. Clarke found the sonnet on his breakfast-table.’” No source given for the quotation.
The earlier lines:
“Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:”
Landscapes (old post).
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954
Architectural style: a kind of postmodern neoclassical, esp one characterised by broken pediments, split gables and brightly coloured faux-balconies with X railings. Used in corporate headquarters from the London suburbs to Bangalore.
Andrew Cover, a friend of mine, coined this c 2000.
Back September 22.