Easter 2001: My Poetry

 

EASTER 2001

 

We wish you on this Easter morn

A faith renewed and heart reborn;

To know God's love is stronger than

The grave, or death, or fears of man;

And know, though we are far away,

Our hearts meet here upon this day.

Into the Archive: At Large

Ustinov at Large, by Peter Ustinov (192 pages, Michael O’Mara Books Ltd, 1991). The volume to which Ustinov Still at Large is a sequel.

“Peter Ustinov’s weekly column in The European has become a popular supplement to Europe’s literary diet. These short essays, combining as they do Ustinov’s usual blend of wit and wisdom, cover a vast range of subjects.” – from the book flap.

I was pleasantly surprised to find this book in the mail today. I had settled myself to probably only getting it on Monday, and maybe later. It strangely has no presence on Amazon; I had to find a (very inexpensive) copy on eBay from a company called Better World Books. To my delight they had included a bookmark (self-advertising of course), always a useful thing to have around. I am still reading Gilliamesque (which I will probably finish today), and then I will go right into Ustinov at Large. There is no indication that reading order matters to Ustinov’s books of essays, but I am somehow more comfortable with it this way.

Perfect Retro-Casting

 

I have been watching the 1972 BBC series of War and Peace lately, and it struck me that Frank Middlemass (who plays General Kutuzov) would have been the perfect actor to portray Belmok (see Eye of Darkness and otherwhere on this blog). I must admit that it was the dead white eye that first suggested it to me (which is only a special effect contact lens) but then his acting, so expressive of both authority and amiabilty, confirmed me in my assessment. Middlemass also played the unpleasant father Sir Clive Chiddingfield in "Murder at Moorstones Manor" in the series Ripping Yarns.  

Friday Fiction Lite: A BUREAU OF SHADOWS TIMELINE

 

A BUREAU OF SHADOWS TIMELINE: Composed May 26, 2018 

1733: Samuel Ballantine Frobisher born

1752: The events of THE CASE OF CHAMBERS THE MEMOIRIST

1768: Benjamin Franklin and the Society of Extranatural Investigations

1776: The Revolutionary War

1788: Constitution ratified; the DEA solidified

1790: The events of KEEPING BODY AND SOUL TOGETHER

1800: Birth of Bob Bellamy

1806: The events of WILLIAMS' FIRST MISSION

1810: The events of A GRAVE ON DEACON'S PEAK

1816: The events of [BOB'S BOOK 2]

1823: The events of SLAVERY'S GHOST

1837: The events of AMBROSE ABERNATHY

1838: The death of Samuel Frobisher (105); he is succeeded by Joshua Phineas Williams

1839: The frame of SLAVERY'S GHOST

1861-1865: The Civil War

1863: The events of THE TZADDICK WHO COULD WALK THROUGH WALLS

1868: The frame of THE TZADDICK WHO COULD WALK THROUGH WALLS

1883: The events of REMEMBER THE BELLAMY

1888: Death of J. P. Williams (101); succession of B. F. (Benjamin Franklin) Creed

1897: [HONEY FROM THE ROCK]

1901: Edna Yorke joins the Department

1932: The events of HALLOWEEN IN GOTHENBERG

1939-1945: World War Two

1951: The events of CAPITULATION; the death of B. F. Creed (92) and succession of Tyrone Lovett

1977: [BROTHER SILAS]

1983: The events of TAKEN FROM LIFE

1988: Edna Yorke pens the BICENTENNIAL MEMOIR; dies

1991:[LAST CONTACT]

1996: [SOMEONE TO COME WHEN YOU CALL]

1998: November; the events of LOVETT'S LAST TASK

1999: Death of Tyrone Lovett (90); succeeded by Henry Harris Byrd

2008: The events of BLAKE

2018: The events of THE DAY DELPHINE DISAPPEARS

Many (but not all) of the short stories noted in CAPS have already been published in this blog, and can be found by searching their titles.

The Case of the Clerical Cookie Jar

The Case of the Clerical Cookie Jar

“In the roadside towns, the wizards picked up stories and rumors … One man in the town of Edgebrake sat up all night, staring at a little smiling cookie jar made in the shape of a fat monk; it stood on a high cupboard shelf, smiling darkly amid the shadows. The man could not tell anyone what was wrong, or what he thought was wrong.” – The Face in the Frost, by John Bellairs.

Thus began another one of my strange compulsions, one might almost say obsessions. The year was 1978 or 1979 (I imagine), and The Face in the Frost was one of the first three fantasy books I ever bought with my own money (earned working at Nanny’s, I believe). The other two were The Source of Magic by Piers Anthony and The Illearth War by Stephen R. Donaldson; I bought them all off the rack at our local Gibson’s. Good fantasy-style covers, two of them rather wizardly-looking. Two of them turned out to be parts of a series. What did I know? I didn’t care about that at the time, though I am now more cautious about beginning things at the beginning. But I had recently read The Lord of the Rings, and I knew I must try to chase that high.

When I ran across that passage in The Face in the Frost, it struck a strange chord in me. It was in a section describing a series of odd hauntings or inexplicable obsessive thoughts that were plaguing the land of the story, harbingers of the machinations of the evil wizard Melichus. But I had seen just such a cookie jar lately, and in real life! Well, in catalog form, though I cannot remember at this distance if it was from Sears or JC Penney. I didn’t care that its appearance was ominous in the book; the mere unlikely conjunction of the twain made it seem somehow fated. I must try to instantiate this object from a fantasy realm into my own world. I must own that monk cookie jar!

But it was not to be. In the first place, it cost $10, which translates to $45 worth of spending power in our current debased currency. No matter how much I pleaded, Mom could not see it in her monthly budget. But the phrase ‘monk cookie jar’ began to frequent my vocabulary, especially used whenever reciting a list of my wishes. It became quite familiar to the family.

So much so that I wonder if it may, perhaps, have influenced my sister Susan’s eventual cookie jar collecting. She has, as of now, several hundred examples. But always in her hunting she kept an eye open for a ‘monk cookie jar’ for me, and in the early 2000’s (I believe), she presented me with an example like this:  

It still remains a treasured object on my sideboard, though these days it holds diet cough drops rather than cookies.

However, what with the familiarity and luxury of eBay (the world’s garage sale) I could still get that original ‘monk cookie jar’ quite easily now. Most examples cost little more than that inflationary price. But it shall probably wait until I have an excess of money or a paucity of books to chase before I order one up.

Quotes from The Commonplace Book: John Gardner

 

“Stars, spattered out through lifeless night from end to end, like jewels scattered in a dead king's grave, tease, torment my wits toward meaningful patterns that do not exist.”

― John Gardner, Grendel

Many was the night when my brother John and I would be out, either coming home from work or traveling between Seguin and San Marcos, when one or the other of us would gesture dramatically at a particularly impressive display of stars and declaim, "Like so many jewels!"

Some Daily Ephemera

 

Just three images snatched off of Facebook today. G. K. Chesterton's poem The Donkey, a picture of Woden thrusting the sword Gram into the Branstock Oak, and a poster for The Final Sacrifice done in the style of Don Bluth. The Final Sacrifice episode of Mystery Science Theater Three Thousand might be me and my nephew Kameron's favorite parody of all time. The movie itself is such an obvious passion project made on such a shoestring that somehow it transcends all design inadequacies and obvious absurdities and rises to a sort of greatness. And MST3K's jokes are pretty good, too.

Swans They Say: My Poetry

 

SWANS, THEY SAY

Swans, they say, before they die,

Intone one last melodious cry.

Even so, when Death comes winging,

I hope that it shall find me singing. 

3/26/2020

The Lord of the Rings: The Forbidden Pool (Part Two)

The Tale

Frodo and Sam are summoned again to the recess at the back of the cave, where Faramir awaits. He tells his men to bring Gollum. Anborn carries him in, and the ranger takes the hood off Gollum’s head, puts the wretch on his feet, and stands behind him, supporting him.

Gollum blinks in the lamplight, angry eyes hooded, wet hair dripping over his bony brows, a fish still clutched in one hand. His nose is sniveling as he asks to be released. He’s done nothing!

Faramir calmly questions that statement. He asks, has Gollum never done anything worthy of punishment? But the past is not for him to judge. He is here because Gollum has trespassed where it is death to come. ‘The fish of this pool are dearly bought.’

Gollum hastily drops the fish, saying he doesn’t want it. But Faramir says only to come to the pool means death. He has spared him so far at the prayer of Frodo, but he has to satisfy Faramir as well, before he can release him. Who is he, where is he going, and what is his business?

‘We are lost, lost … No name, no business … only empty… only hungry … A few little fishes, nasty bony fishes, for a poor creature, and they say death. So wise they are, so just, so very just.’

Perhaps not so wise, Faramir answers but as just as we can be. He hands Frodo a little knife and tells him to set Gollum free. Gollum squeals and falls to the floor, misinterpreting the gesture. Frodo says he must trust him, cutting his bonds and raising him to his feet. Faramir commands him to look at him. He asks if Gollum knows where he is and if he’s ever been there before?

Gollum looks unwillingly into his unwavering eyes, then drops his gaze and slumps to the floor. ‘Never came here; never come again.’

Faramir deems there are dark, locked rooms in Gollum’s mind, but on this subject, he believes him. What oath can he swear that he’ll never return or lead any others to this place? Gollum looks at Frodo. Master knows. If Master will save him, he will promise to It. He crawls to Frodo’s feet, whining and pleading. Faramir asks is Frodo is satisfied, and the hobbit assents. It is a good promise; Faramir must accept it or carry out their law. But he hopes he won’t: he promised Gollum his safety, and he hopes he won’t be proved false.

Faramir thinks deeply for a moment, then surrenders Gollum into his Master Frodo’s custody, to judge him as he will. But what will Faramir do with the Master? Frodo asks. ‘Then I will declare my doom,’ Faramir replies.

Frodo and those under his protection are free to travel through to the furthest ancient bounds of Gondor, but never to return to or to reveal the location of this secret post. This will last for a year and a day or until he comes to the Steward of Gondor to be confirmed in this judgement. Meanwhile he and his companions are under his protection and ‘the shield of Gondor.’

Frodo bows, and at Faramir’s word takes Gollum into his protection. Sam audibly sighs at the act. Faramir tells Gollum that he is under Frodo’s care, but if he is found without Frodo, he will be killed. Now, Frodo has declared he was his guide; where is Gollum taking them?

Gollum refuses to answer, but Frodo says he was taking them to a high pass near Minas Ithil – Minas Morgul now, Faramir reiterates. There they hope to find a way into Mordor. Faramir asks him if he knows the name of that path, then reveals it is called Cirith Ungol. Gollum hisses sharply at the name. Oh, so you’ve heard of it? Yes, Gollum admits, but what’s in a name. Master must go, and there is no other way.

Faramir wonders how he would know that; is he familiar with all the ways of the Black Land? He tells Anborn to take Gollum away but to watch him closely. And he warns Gollum not to try to escape by diving into the waterfall; the pool below has sharp rocks that would surely kill him. Anborn leaves with Gollum cringing before him. The curtain falls again over the recess.

Faramir tells Frodo that he is very unwise to have Gollum as a guide: ‘malice eats [him] like a canker, and the evil is growing.’ If Gollum wants, he will have his men take Gollum to wherever the creature will on the boundaries of Gondor, so Frodo will be done with him. But Frodo says Gollum would never do that. He’ll follow Frodo – and the Ring, he implies – wherever he goes. Besides, he’s made promises to Gollum.

Farmir counsels him against Cirith Ungol, though. The place has an evil reputation, nothing known surely of course, but old loremasters with ‘blanch and fall silent’ if it is named. There is some dark terror there. And the way will take them near Minas Morgul, long now the fortress of the Nazgul, haunted by ‘a shapeless fear within the ruined walls …You will be espied. It is a place of sleepless malice, full of lidless eyes.’

Frodo replies he has to try. He is bound by solemn undertaking to find a way or die. If he turns back with this Thing, where would he go? To Minas Tirith? It already caused Boromir’s fate; what would happen then to Gondor? ‘Shall there be two cities of Minas Morgul, grinning at each other across a dead land filled with rottenness?’ There is no time to look for another way, so he must take what path that he can.

Faramir reluctantly agrees, but warns Frodo again about Gollum. He has done murder before (he can see it in him). But for now Faramir will have food prepared for their leaving.

‘I would gladly learn how this creeping Smeagol became possessed of the Thing of which we speak, and how he lost it, but I will not trouble you now. If ever beyond hope you return to the lands of the living and we re-tell our tales, sitting by a wall in the sun, laughing at old grief, you shall tell me then. Until that time, or some other time beyond the Seeing-stones of Numenor, farewell!’

Bits and Bobs

Poor Gollum. His answers to Faramir that he is lost, that he has no name or business, that he is only empty, only hungry, hints at his loss of identity in his yearning for the Ring. He may be trying to play on Faramir’s pity, but he is revealing sad truths about his condition that he probably shies away from in normal circumstances. Malice and desire for the Ring eats him up like a ‘canker’, an ulcer or sore, but a word also related to ‘cancer’.

The word ‘doom’ is used in the passage for ‘judgement’ (Faramir pronounces his doom on their case).

We get a nice tease of Minas Morgul, our next point of destination.

 Some have wondered why Faramir did not at least explain the meaning of the word ‘Ungol’ (spider); perhaps he assumed Frodo already knew. When questioned about the pass, Gollum first tries to lie about what he knows, but his oath seems to give him a sharp pinch, so he is clearly under some compulsion beyond even his … well, let’s call it his sense of honor.

‘A year and a day’ is an old legal term to assure the full completion of a term.

I wonder what Frodo made of ‘the Seeing-stones of Numenor’; we know what they are, but he wasn’t there with Pippin and Gandalf.

The irony that Faramir says the rocks in the pool would end Gollum 'before his time' lies in the fact that Gollum has already lived far beyond his time. But perhaps he means 'beyond his fated time.'

Me and the Bee-Wolf: A Journey Through Time with Beowulf

I.                   What it is: “Beowulf (/ˈbeɪəwʊlf/; Old English: Bēowulf [ˈbeːowuɫf] – the ‘wolf of the bees, i.e. the bear) is an Old English epic poem in the tradition of Germanic heroic legend consisting of 3,182 alliterative lines. It is one of the most important and most often translated works of Old English literature. The date of composition is a matter of contention among scholars; the only certain dating is for the manuscript, which was produced between 975 and 1025 AD. Scholars call the anonymous author the "Beowulf poet". The story is set in pagan Scandinavia in the 6th century. Beowulf, a hero of the Geats, comes to the aid of Hrothgar, the king of the Danes, whose mead hall Heorot has been under attack by the monster Grendel for twelve years. After Beowulf slays him, Grendel's mother takes revenge and is in turn defeated. Victorious, Beowulf goes home to Geatland and becomes king of the Geats. Fifty years later, Beowulf defeats a dragon, but is mortally wounded in the battle. After his death, his attendants cremate his body and erect a barrow on a headland in his memory.

“The poem survives in a single copy in the manuscript known as the Nowell Codex. It has no title in the original manuscript, but has become known by the name of the story's protagonist. [It is one of the rare Anglo-Saxon survivors of Henry VIII’s rape of the monasteries; other vellum manuscripts were later found being used as leather for shoes. Thanks, Hank.] In 1731, the manuscript was damaged by a fire that swept through Ashburnham House in London, which was housing Sir Robert Cotton's collection of medieval manuscripts. It survived, but the margins were charred, and some readings were lost. The Nowell Codex is housed in the British Library. The poem was first transcribed in 1786; some verses were first translated into modern English in 1805.” – Wikipedia.

 

II.              Beowulf the Warrior, retold by Ian Serraillier (1954), Illustrated by Mark Severin. This skinny little book is more important than it might appear. It is the first version of Beowulf that I ever read. I think it must have been because of “The Tolkien Reader”; I had heard of Beowulf before, but “Reader” was the tipping point, with its Anglo-Saxon talkifying, that made me try it. And a better introduction to the poem for a young reader there could not be. It is told in unrhyming stressed poetic lines like the original; its illustrations mimic period art; and there is no extraneous “interpretations or opinions” added by the teller. This book, along with “The Hobbit”, Pyle’s “King Arthur” (with Arthurian satellites “The Crystal Cave” and “The Sword in the Stone”) and “The Dark is Rising”, was part of the catalyst that solidified my imaginative matrix in middle school. I have an early picture (early in my drawing as well as in time) where I try to mimic the coiling dragon from the illustrations; on the other side of the paper is a tracing of heraldry shields and terms from the World Book. I bought this copy (from the Lompoc Unified School District, no less) many years later over the internet.

III.           Mrs. Hardcastle’s class in my Junior year (1979) … I remember in her class I also wrote a rhymed-couplet version of Beowulf’s fight with Grendel; I’ve lost that poem, but that’s on me.

The only two lines I remember go something like: “Ever did Beowulf clutch his coat,/ Ever did Grendel seek his throat.” That was also about the time I read Grendel, by John Gardner (1971), found in our high school library.

IV.          Beowulf, by Robert Nye. An adaptation and interpretation of the Beowulf story for younger readers. I was first exposed to this book (unknowingly) in my senior year when Mrs. Richardson read us a bit of it for an assignment (without mentioning the author) about re-writing a classic in our own words. Didn’t know it was Robert Nye, whose adult books I discovered in college. Got this edition and recognized it in the first few pages and made the connection. A cover by Jean Leon Huens.

V.              The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays, by J. R. R. Tolkien. Edited by Christopher Tolkien. The 1984 Houghton Mifflin Company edition. I got this second-hand copy sometime later, however, being unaware of its publication at the time. The first page seems to be pasted to the book jacket. “The Monsters and the Critics, and Other Essays is a collection of J. R. R. Tolkien's scholarly linguistic essays edited by his son Christopher and published posthumously in 1983. All of them were initially delivered as lectures to academics, with the exception of "On Translating Beowulf", which Christopher Tolkien notes in his foreword is not addressed to an academic audience.

VI.          Beowulf, by Jerry Bingham. A 60-page Graphic Novel, (1987), First Comics. I know I didn’t get it that year, but I couldn't pinpoint when I did. A pretty fair adaptation of the saga, but as a graphic novel ... a little turgid.

VII.      Beowulf Penguin David Wright 1957; Beowulf, translated by Burton Raffel, Mentor Classic, 1963; Rosemary Sutcliffe Beowulf: Dragonslayer (1968);  Beowulf Seamus Heaney 1999 Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney finds a resonance that summons power to the poetry from deep beneath its surface. Drawn to what he has called the "four-squareness of the utterance" in Beowulf and its immense emotional credibility, Heaney gives these epic qualities new and convincing reality for the contemporary reader. The Tolkien scholar Tom Shippey wrote that if Heaney thought his dialect had somehow maintained a native purity, he was deluded. Beowulf and Grendel … John Grigsby … 2005, posits that Beowulf is based on the memory of an ancient human sacrificial cult (bog burial and all that) that was driven out by the encroaching Northern culture. I never found it particularly enlightening, but then I’m more interested in the literary side rather than any anthropological interpretation. All versions either desired, acquired, or expired.

VIII.   Beowulf: The Script Book, by Neil Gaiman and Roger Avary, (movie 2008, script 2009) I don’t know if it’s the admixture of another artist, or the difficulty of getting Gaiman’s poetic vision onto a screen, but these efforts, as films, were mediocre at best. Reading the script of Beowulf you get a glimpse of what he was trying for; seeing it dropped like an old horseshoe bare on the screen leaves out the shadows and fog.

IX.           Beowulf: A Translation and a Commentary (together with Sellic Spell), by J. R. R. Tolkien. Edited by Christopher Tolkien. (2014) “It is the long-awaited version of the premier Anglo-Saxon epic by a great scholar of philology best known to the world as one of the greatest Fantasy authors of modern times. As such it may be asked: at whom is this edition aimed? The English scholar, or the fan of speculative fiction, or is it just the enthusiastic reader who wants to tuck into a good version of Beowulf? The answer, I think, is none of these in particular. The person this book will appeal to most is someone with a great interest in Tolkien himself, and the history of his thought and creative processes. Christopher Tolkien, in his Preface, says as much: "The present work should best be regarded as a 'memorial volume, a 'portrait' (as it were) of the scholar in his time, in words of his own, hitherto unpublished." The book itself consists of a prose translation by Tolkien and commentary on the text extracted from a series of lectures; included is Sellic Spell, his imaginative reconstruction of the folk tale that Tolkien suspected lay behind the epic, and a couple of short(-ish) ballad re-tellings of the Beowulf story. For the Tolkien enthusiast and scholar a hearty banquet, for the casual peruser a hard garden in which to find the way. Perhaps the most interesting (and by far the longest) section is the Commentary on elements of the poem itself. It is fascinating to watch Tolkien unpick and unpack the meanings of Anglo-Saxon words and phrases, revealing the implications and thoughts behind such terms as 'wyrd' or 'the whale-road,' of Grendel's relation to Cain and the giants of old, of the glimpses at life lived in another age revealed in simple metaphors like trouble 'denying men the ale-benches,' i.e., the simple pleasures of a stable life. Reading these notes, in the Professor's unmistakable voice, can give you the feeling of actually attending one of his lectures on one of those famous occasions when he turned the classroom into a mead hall. It would not surprise me if scholars of Beowulf would be mining this volume in years to come for insights and inspirations. The icing on top of this rich cake and the part most immediately accessible to the casual reader is Sellic Spell ("Marvellous Tale"), the Beowulf story recast into what Tolkien imagined could be its original fairy-tale mode, followed by the two ballads. It would be easy to imagine the Spell extracted, illustrated by Pauline Baynes, and sold on its own as a children's book. Here we read Tolkien's Anglo-Saxon scholarship, love of fairy stories, and vigorous narrative skills once more combining to bring a "lost tale" to life, and the ballads Beowulf and Grendel and Beowulf and the Monsters are respectable contributions to the growing body of Tolkien's poetry (always underrated, in my opinion). Beowulf: A Translation and Commentary is a significant addition to the corpus of Tolkien's work, and a beautiful book to boot, illustrated with three pictures from the author's own hand. As a source of insight into his creation of Middle-Earth it is at the same time peripheral and profound: the occasional reference to his own epic work is only to be found in Christopher's editing hand. But Beowulf and all the traditions behind it were a deep element in the "leaf-mould" of Tolkien's mind, and here you can sniff and handle the soil from which Arda sprang.” – Power of Babel, 2014.

X.              And now, having read Laughing Shall I Die, I find myself wanting two more books, Beowulf and the North Before the Vikings (August 2022) and Beowulf: Translation and Commentary Tom Shippey (August 2023). Shippey’s version is no longer available on Amazon; I may have to get it from the publisher, Uppsala. 

Into the Archive: How Very, Very, Very Witty

 

Yesterday, as the evening shades were falling, Andy brought a couple of packages over to me. They were my orders from Amazon, which I did not really expect until the 28^th. So that was a pleasant end to a rather uncomfortable day. They were a couple of items I had on the Wish List for a while, and which checking I found had fallen to more comfortable prices.

The first was Gilliamesque: A Pre-Posthumous Memoir, by Terry Gilliam (2015, Hardback, 352 pages, Harper). When I first opened it, I thought someone had vandalized the page edges all around by writing ‘ME’ in red marker, but that turned out only to be Gilliam’s book design declaring his subject.

“The screenwriter, innovative animator, highly acclaimed visionary film director, and only non-British member of Monty Python offers an intimate glimpse into his world in this fascinating memoir illustrated with hand-drawn sketches, notes, and memorabilia from his personal archive.

“From his no-frills childhood in the icy wastes of Minnesota, to some of the hottest water Hollywood had to offer, via the cutting edge of 1960s and ’70s counter-culture in New York, L.A. and London, Terry Gilliam’s life has been as vivid, entertaining and unorthodox as one of his films.

“Telling his story for the first time, the director of Time Bandits, Brazil, The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, The Fisher King, 12 Monkeys, and Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas—not to mention co-founder of Monty Python’s Flying Circus—recalls his life so far. Packed with never-before-seen artwork, photographs and commentary, Gilliamesque blends the visual and the verbal with scabrous wit and fascinating insight.

“Gilliam’s “pre-posthumous memoir” also features a cast of amazing supporting characters—George Harrison, Robin Williams, Jeff Bridges, Robert De Niro, Brad Pitt, Uma Thurman, Johnny Depp, Heath Ledger and all of the fellow Pythons—as well as cameo appearances from some of the heaviest cultural hitters of modern times, from Woody Allen to Frank Zappa, Gloria Steinem to Robert Crumb, Richard Nixon to Hunter S. Thompson. Gilliam’s encounters with the great and the not-so-good are revealing, funny, and hugely entertaining.

“This book is an unrestrained look into a unique creative mind and an incomparable portrait of late twentieth-century popular culture.” – Amazon.

The second book was Ustinov: Still at Large, by Peter Ustinov (1993, Hardback, 192 pages, Michael O’Mara Books). For some reason (scatterbrained old me) I thought this was going to be a continuation of his autobiography. I find now that this book is a collection of essays, a sequel of sorts to a similar book, Ustinov at Large (1991), which is not offered on Amazon but which I must now try to get. Luckily, eBay has one for $4.50.

“It has been said that reading Peter Ustinov is like listening to a good story told by an old friend. Ustinov’s gifts as a raconteur have been widely demonstrated both in print and on television so readers of this volume will not be surprised at the ample wit and telling observation displayed in Still at Large.

“These essays, which first appeared in The European, written during Ustinov’s regular perambulations around our planet, take up every subject under the sun from American politicians to Britain’s royals. The moods take in wry humor, indignation, and outright anger. But whatever the mood, Ustinov is always interesting, always caring, and always … well, friendly.” – From the Front Flap.

Opening it, I found to my surprise and joy that Ustinov had autographed it, which is certainly an unexpected bonus. “To Francia (?), Best Wishes, Peter Ustinov.” Of course, the ‘Peter Ustinov’ is rather deduced from the stylized swirls of his handwriting. But it does mean that, whatever the reading experience, it enters my small selection of authors’ autographs.

But I’m not much worried about the quality of the writing. I read the first chapters of both books before going to bed last night, and I can see that I’m in for some engaging hours ahead.