Until now I had never read TS Eliot’s The Waste Land. So when Simon Barnes (yes, that Simon Barnes: environmentalist, journalist, author, former Chief Sports Writer of The Times) had a piece recently in The New European I took notice.
I know Barnes slightly; he’s a great fan of Anthony Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time and gave the 2022 Anthony Powell Society Annual Lecture just a few weeks ago. So of course I took notice – especially as he read English at the University of Bristol, and I know him to be a thinker.
Why had I not read The Waste Land before? Well, I’m not a great reader of poetry; I never have been, partly because, like so much of English Literature, I was put off it by school. It’s not that I dislike poetry but all the
[sic] stuff turns me off, as does most modern so-called poetry that doesn’t scan and doesn’t rhyme – and I’m not even sure how Shakespeare brings off blank verse. So spare me, inter alia, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Longfellow (of the first type) and Allen Ginsberg, Simon Armitage, Carol Ann Duffy (of the second).
But there is poetry I like. Coleridge, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43997/the-rime-of-the-ancient-mariner-text-of-1834. Lewis Carroll, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43909/the-hunting-of-the-snark. TS Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats (see Eliot can write “proper” verse) – I knew the entire 66 lines of Skimbleshanks off by heart when I was about seven or eight. Roger McGough, Summer with Monika. C Day Lewis, Requiem for the Living. John Updike. Christopher Smart, Jubilate Agno.
But I’m sorry, The Waste Land is pretentious garbage – and the Four Quartets are not that far behind. It neither rhymes (OK, there’s the odd couplet) nor scans. For me it is in the same rubbish bin as Ulysses, Finnegan’s Wake, Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses, Edith Sitwell’s Façade. None of them make sense, and they’re pretty unreadable. Pseudo-profound bullshit, one suspects written to make money from a clutch of gullible critics. And were they gulled.
No, sorry, you enjoy it if you want to, but it says nothing to me. Just leave me alone to be a Philistine.
How much do you know about your insides? Most of us have an idea of how our bodies work; for some it is fairly sketchy, but for others there’s a bit more detail. But unless you’re a medic you’re unlikely to understand the minutiae and you need an anatomist to point out the nooks, crannies and curiosities.
Naturally enough Boston concentrates on France, with Italy, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Spain and Portugal all getting their own chapters. There is then a chapter on sparkling wines; another on pudding wines; and notes about other countries in a further chapter. I found this slightly puzzling: why give Austria and Switzerland their own chapters, but not Greece, which in my limited experience has equally as many, and as good, wines? For me, Italy and Spain produce just a much good wine as France (which still produces the very top-most wines), with the added bonus that it is usually slightly cheaper.
This is a book about wasps. It isn’t a book of wasps; not a field guide; nor an academic description of the minutiae of wasps. But it is about wasps.
Greater London has thousands of pubs – so many that probably no-one had counted them; and in any event the list would change daily. In 136 pages the authors of this slim volume describe the origins of over 650 of the more unusual or interesting pub names in Greater London – all the way from “Aces & Eights” (Tufnell Park) to the “Zetland Arms” (South Kensington). As one can imagine, at an average of about 5 pubs and a photograph per page, the descriptions are not very detailed. This is a shame, as there is undoubtedly more to be told about most of these names, and many others.
