An ordinary Friday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I call up my mother for a logistical conversation, but somehow we end up talking about a drunken Irish playwright who used to chase her round the upstairs corridors of a white house in Wicklow in the 1960s.

'The green soup, Mum,' I say sternly, to get the conversation back on track.

'Hold on,' she says. 'I'm writing it down.'

'You don't need to write it down,' I say. 'It's so easy, I can just tell you, and you can keep it in your head.'

'Yes,' she says. 'The only thing is, there really isn't any head, any more.'

I know what she means. There are times when I actually have no information about what day of the week it is, and have to look it up on the internet. Not that long ago, I spent an hour searching for my wallet, to find that it was in the fridge. (The most idiotic thing was that I ended up congratulating myself on having the genius idea of even looking in the fridge.)

I did work. I walked the dogs. I did recycling. I went to the butcher and bought a fillet of Aberdeen Angus on an entirely unjustifiable whim (the expense) and laughed at his jokes. I took my mother watercress, leeks, garlic and chillies for the soup, and a cheesecake for a treat. I failed to get to the post office, but there is always tomorrow.

In other words, it was a good, ordinary day. There is a lot of craziness out there in the world, so I don't turn my nose up at an ordinary day.

Talking of ordinary things, here are some, which even in their very ordinariness, still carry a certain beauty:

A fallen pine cone.

Wild grass, out in the meadow.

Clouds and treetops.

The last of the fading chive flowers.

Lemons, from the day I was making lemonade.

Excuse me, how did those two get in there? They are not ordinary at all.

A green leaf.

The lichen on my dry stone wall. You know I can never get enough lichen.

The wild corner of my garden, where I pretty much let things grow as they will. I put in some ferns and ivy and vincas, and the rest is left to nature.

Moss.

A rowan leaf.

 

The sun is making a half-hearted attempt at shining. I think I shall go outside and look at it.

Have a very happy Friday, wherever you are.

SOPH, SOPH - This one's for you

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

To my regular readers: please forgive me. I am going to use the blog for a little bit of self-indulgence.

My old friend Sophie lives all the way out in Santa Monica, and she's had a hell of a year, and I want to send her out a big, fat, vulgar dose of love. Sometimes an email just won't do it. For some reason, this needs to be nailed up on the wall.

So, Soph, this is for you:

Remember when we first met, in the dark, subterranean bar of Brasenose? (What the hell were we doing in Brasenose?)

Remember Commend, Commend?

Remember the parties in the Cathedral Gardens?

Remember our intemperate love for Mr Everett?

Remember Dreamy and the Ducklings?

Remember the summer that I refused to take off this hat?

Remember when we had finals fever so badly we would get in the car and drive round and round the ring road, singing Oh What A Night at full volume?

Remember the first flat-share, and how I made you watch The Big Chill and High Society over and over?

Remember when we drank 1928 Armagnac and ate four courses in that restaurant in Prague in the shadow of Charles Bridge?

Remember the mornings in Sausalito, and the visit to Napa, and the time we drove up to Big Sur?

Remember the green velvet jacket that I wore that whole trip?

Remember all the boys that made us cry?

Remember all the boys that made us laugh?

Remember the time we went to Connemara and sat on the sand at Dog's Bay, and ate stuffed mussels at O'Dowd's, and I had a freak-out in that hotel restaurant because it was far too posh, and you had to take me to the pub and feed me Guinness until I could speak again?

Remember when you came to Hay, and we met Terence, and dear Roger madly went swimming in the river?

 

Remember that sweet lunch in the tiny white house near Deal, when you looked so glamorous in your California shades?

Remember when I quoted Yeats at your wedding to the Lovely R? One man loved the pilgrim soul in you.

Remember when we took little Z boating on Lake Windermere in the pouring rain?

Remember last summer, when both the children sat under the Scots Pines, and we had tea on the lawn and sang songs while Tara played the guitar?

That's twenty-five years, baby.

That's what it's all about.

Sometimes, it seems like it's all tunnel, but I know there is a light.

You are my most beloved friend, and this is the face I think of when I think of you:

Remember the Good Times.

 

And now, for listeners joining us from Long Wave, normal service will resume.

Back to normal

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

That is, if anyone knows what 'normal' actually is. I wonder about that quite a lot. Half of me rather yearns for normal. I have a respectable self which thinks that working regular hours, and keeping the house tidy, and cooking proper food at serious mealtimes is the mark of an adult. I also have a thoroughly disreputable side which thinks: sod them all if they can't take a joke. This side says: I am a creative, dammit, of course I can't do my paperwork, that stuff is for the drones. One side believes Flaubert, who said: be regular and orderly in your life like a bourgeois, so that you may be violent and original in your work. One side favours Scott Fitzgerald, and wants to go and jump in the fountain outside The Plaza.

Small aside:

When I first went to New York City, all by myself, at the age of nineteen, the very first place I went was The Oak Bar of The Plaza, because that was where F Scott used to drink. I ordered a bourbon, straight up, from a barman called Mose who looked like WC Fields, and had a lovely conversation with a gentlemanly psychologist who was in town from Florida for a shrinks' conference.

'Oh my GOD,' shrieked my old school, Upper East Side friend George, when I told him this the next day. 'Did he offer you money?'

'Certainly not,' I said. 'He was perfectly charming. Why would you say that?'

'Because that's where all the HOOKERS go,' said George, in horrified delight.

Anyway, I spend most days battling it out between the bourgeois and the bohemian. No wonder sometimes I have to go and have a little lie-down.

Today was more orderly than yesterday. I wrote a fairly calm 802 words. I made a little flower arrangement. I walked the dogs. I am, however, averting my eyes from the toppling pile of paper which sits to my right, waiting malevolently to be dealt with. We can't expect miracles. Or at least, I can't.

To divert my attention from my vanishingly thin organisational skills, I am contemplating The Beauty. Bugger the paper, let us consider the flowers:

 

It always amazes me how much pleasure one tiny arrangement in a Moroccan tea-glass can bring. That is apple mint, flowering marjoram, lavender, astilbes, a hellebore, and one old-fashioned tea rose, all from my very own garden.

Talking of pleasure and beauty - you know what is coming next:

Did you ever see such elegance?

The whole red chair thing started because I have my sister's poodle to stay, and I wanted to take a nice picture of her, so that the sister and the younger niece could see that their canine was having a nice time while they were away:

Then I decided that the whole black dog against the scarlet chair with the vintage Union Flag cushions thing was too good to waste. So I made the other dogs get up there for their own photo shoot. They were quite puzzled, since they never sit on that chair, on account of it being too small for them. But they bore it with resigned patience:

I know that dogs do not have human thoughts. I resist anthropomorphism daily, not always with vast success. But if they were capable of putting together a sentence in their doggy heads, I suspect it would be: 'Let's just humour the old girl.'

The sentence in my own head is: 'In the words of the late, great Nancy Mitford: do admit.'

 

Final photographic addendum:

One of the things I love about my new camera is that I can fool around with filters and colours. As you can see, it can do sepia, and black and white, and varying shades of warm and cold. I am still discovering its many functions, a process which would be made easier if I had not already lost the manual.

Some of you have left very kind comments about the pictures, and asked to be reminded what the heavenly new article is. It is an Olympus PEN, what is called a three quarter camera. It is not quite an SLR, with the advantage that it is not as heavy and clunky; its design is retro and particularly pleasing. However, as you can see, it is miles more sophisticated than a simple compact. As far as I can tell, its only disadvantage is that it is expensive (I got it with my American advance, which was quite naughty as I should obviously be saving that for a rainy day), and its zoom is sadly limited. I really do want a proper zoom lens, but they are a fortune. I am contemplating screwing up my eyes and just saying what the hell, but have not quite got there yet.

 

Have a very happy Thursday. I wish you all patient black dogs and roses in glasses. Or equivalent.

I meant to say…

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

To all my French readers: Joyeaux Quatorze Juillet.

Je vous souhaite une très belle journée.

In homage to La Belle France (do actual French people ever use that phrase?) I give you some of my most beloved French photographers.

The Daddy, Cartier-Bresson:

Lartigue, with one of my favourite photographs of all time:

Doisneau:

Atget:

And Brassai, who rather amazingly used to read to me when I was small. My grandmother knew him from her days in Paris, and he would come to stay at her house in the south, and read all the children stories. I was six, and my French was not fluent, so I only caught one word in ten, but I loved staring at his ancient, kindly face with its poppy eyes. It was only years later that I discovered the dear old gent with the story book took pictures like this:

Wednesday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Keep thinking it is Tuesday. Somewhere this week, I lost a day. It might be an occupational hazard.

2882 words today. It is too much. I generally think after 2,000 everything degenerates into nonsense. I had too many cups of black coffee and could not stop. I am intensely aware of deadlines and how much I still have to say; I must bash on, on, on as fast as my fingers can carry me, even if sometimes it results in too many words.

After all that, I send Sarah such a manic email that she writes back: 'Are you alright?'.

I am tempted to say: define 'alright'. Although of course I am. It's just my brain gets a little fried at this stage in a book. It's all book, all the time, and that can leave one feeling swamped under a raging tide of thought. Also, my practical sense, which is atrophied at the finest of times, becomes even more vestigial. Usual things like tidying up the kitchen take on a looming, impossible aspect.

I did manage, however, to make my dear mum a nice pot of minestrone. I feel it imperative that she have soup. She seemed very pleased, and gave me goat's cheese on oatcakes in an attempt to relieve my enervation. On the way back from her house, I looked at all the poor sheep, who have been shorn to within an inch of their lives, and were not expecting the driving rain and meagre twelve degrees which have today descended. They huddled under the chestnut trees, looking most put out.

I am going to ignore the torrential weather and give you some flower pictures instead. Sorry there are not better words on the blog today; it all went into the book and there is nothing left. You are very patient with me. These are from yesterday, when the sun was shining:

A tiny hedgerow rose.

All that is left of the tree hydrangea, which only a week ago was covered in white flowers. I think it is still rather splendid, in its own right, with its bare stalks and tiny red tips.

A brand new rosebud, all the more marvellous because it is on a rosebush I thought had perished in the long winter snows.

These geraniums are those kind that do not grow in one place, but wind their way through many other plants, and spring up in the most unlikely areas. They always feel like a present to me.

When I rescued all the poor old pots and put them up on the new pot table and started watering them and mulching them and giving them some love, some turned out to contain quite forgotten flowers. I had no idea these two even still existed. They appeared, quite out of the blue, a week ago.

Here is another surprise, a little strawberry I thought dead as a dodo.

The pot table in all its glory. Just look at that happy lavender. And do you see the mystery seeds are growing, down in the right-hand corner?

I still have absolutely no idea what they might be. My sister says I must 'prick them out'. I do not know what this means. It sounds most alarming. I just nod my head when she says things like this and try not to look like an idiot.

I leave you with the traditional gratuitous dog shot. She's got her stick, and she's not letting it go.

Polanski, redux

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Godammit, do I have to write about this again? Yes, I do. I am in such a state of rage that my fingers can hardly move coherently over the keyboard.

It often astonishes me how days turn out. We have not had a huge amount of summer up here in Scotland; you got all the good stuff in the south. But today was a proper, all stops out, sunshiny day. It was so hot this morning that I put on a skirt, laid out a blanket on the lawn, and took my work outside, so I could bask in the weather. I was entirely happy. I solemnly saluted the high good fortune of the self-employed. I made some lemonade, and marinated a chicken for my lunch. It was all domestic goddess, all the time, and all manner of things were well.

Then, for no special reason, I came inside to check my email, and thought I'd say something on Twitter. I have neglected Twitter lately, and felt oddly guilty about it. And there was a tweet from Johann Hari saying that he was getting hate mail about an article he'd written on the sordid Roman Polanski affair.

You can find the piece here. It is excellent. It says everything I think. Yet Mr Hari is getting hate mail, because he takes the scandalous position that child rape is wrong. I understand nothing.

I was talking a couple of days ago about moral relativists, and how they baffle me. Some people might think the defenders of Polanksi, who are so happy that he has been released, are relativists. I think they are worse than that. I think they are immoralists. It is very difficult for me to write this about a man like Bernard-Henri Levy, whose book on the killing of Daniel Pearl is filled with brilliantly calibrated moral outrage. But I can come to no other conclusion.

Let us perform a short and horrible thought experiment. You have a thirteen year old daughter. She comes home and tells you that a forty-three year old man has performed cunnilingus and anal sex on her, while she wept and said no, no, please no, I want to go home.

Do you:

A. Desperately attempt to comfort her, then call the police and insist that the full force of the law be brought to bear against her rapist?

Or

B. Tell her it's not such a big deal because her seducer once directed rather a good film with Mia Farrow in it?

It's not really very hard to choose, is it?

What would all these staunch defenders say if it had been their thirteen-year-old child? What ethical code are they calling on when they dismiss the sodomising of a child against her will?

The categorical imperative is useful here. I sometimes think that Kant struck at the very heart of morality when he said:

'Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law.'.

It is such a lovely, true, shining principle. It is the most Occamish of Occam's Razors. It cuts through all the noise, and confusion, and spurious justification. It kills relativity with one single stroke.

By the lights of the categorical imperative, the supporters of Roman Polanksi are suggesting that all adult males should be forgiven child rape if they have suffered tragedy in their personal lives, and if they have some artistic talent. Just pause for a moment and imagine writing that law into the statute book.

I understand complexity. I understand that Manichean thinking can be the enemy of sense. I understand that moral rigidity is not a good thing. I do not understand this. I do not understand why it is all right for the director of Chinatown to molest a child. I do not understand why Whoopi Goldberg thinks it is not 'rape-rape' (nor do I understand what rape-rape even is). I do not understand why people should be so enraged by any challenge to their twisted ethics that they send a good and honourable journalist hate mail.

I can't remember if it was Socrates or one of those sage old Chinese gents who said: the wise man is the one who knows he knows nothing. Today, I feel as if I know nothing. It does not make me feel awfully wise.

 

This, my darlings, is what I was going to write about, before:

And this:

And this:

And this:

Did you ever see such blue? Do you think that if I stare at that sky for long enough I shall recover my equilibrium?

Perhaps if I let my eyes fall on these faces, I shall once again grow calm:

They damn well know right from wrong. And they are dogs.

Monday, and a prize

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I always imagine, in the twisting corridors of my own mind, that each Monday I shall be galvanised and box-fresh. The moment the clock hits midnight on Sunday, I think the accumulated detritus of the last week should fall way by magic, and I shall be able to rise, like a shining phoenix, to greet the new dawn. Actually, what usually happens is that I get monkey mind on a Sunday night, fail to sleep, and go into Monday with a haunting sense of lost chance. A vicious caffeine buzz is the only thing that keeps me going. I do bad work. I think to myself: ah, Tuesday will be better.

I think almost certainly Tuesday will be better.

In the meantime, the enchanting LibertyLondonGirl has given me a Beautiful Blogger award.

I am quite overcome. LLG is a bit of a legend in these parts. Despite the fact that she was an established, ocean-going, five-star concern when I very first dipped my tentative foot into the waters of the blogosphere, she took the time to welcome me, give me excellent advice, and offer generous encouragement. It was an act of kindness and grace which I do not forget. 

I am intensely flattered.

Into every ointment, however, a tiny fly must fall. The rule is: you pass on the award to ten or fifteen people. Part of me loves doing this, but part of me hates it. There are so many blogs that fascinate and enchant me, how can I choose between them? In some cases, the choice is easy. I think that Major Paul Smyth at the fabulous Helmand Blog might be a bit surprised, in the heat and dust of Afghanistan, if he suddenly got a Beautiful Blogger award from a women of whom he has never heard, even though I read his blog with admiration each day. Obviously, it would be absurd to send an award to Andrew Sullivan over at The Daily Dish, although my day would not be complete without him. But for the rest, I feel that singling out ten is an invidious task. You know I love you all. Every blog on my blogroll is read with appreciation and delight. I also follow many more on Google Reader. I am always quite amazed by how much talent is out there.

Still, I must bite the bullet. As LLG says, ten or fifteen is too many. She chose six, and I shall follow her lead. Here are this week's six recipients:

Miss Whistle and Mrs Trefusis Takes a Taxi were early discoveries in my blogging life. I am rather shocked to find I had not sent them awards before this. I think it is because I mention them quite often in my posts, and so must have assumed that I had made it Official before now. They could not have been kinder when I was starting out, knowing nothing. Both they and their blogs are the epitome of beauty.

The Spice Spoon and Capers in the Kitchen are very different and equally wonderful food bloggers. They are also lovely readers, and leave interesting and generous comments.

Recipe Rifle is a new discovery, and makes me envious, because she is so damn funny.

Motherhood: The Final Frontier is a surprising and touching and funny writer. Not surprisingly, she got an award not very long ago, so this might feel like a redundancy. I give it anyway, because she is so good.

And now, my seven things. I think they are supposed to be quirky or obscure. I shall try not to tell you things you know already, which is practically everything.

1. I do not like the colour yellow. I cannot love daffodils, for this reason.

2. I have a slightly out of control cockle habit.

3. I can recite every line of dialogue from The Big Chill. I am slightly ashamed of this fact.

4. Sometimes I talk to my dogs in French, even though I do not speak French very well, and I am pretty certain they do not understand it, despite the auld alliance.

5. I really wish I could play the guitar. I did try to learn once, but it made my fingers hurt.

6. I love the words: spurious, egregious, rebarbative, pomp, chastened, melancholy, baffling, and horrid. I also like to use nice in its fine sense, as in: a nice distinction.

7. I wish I could understand what happened before the Big Bang. I have a suspicion I am not alone in this.

 

Pictures of the day are all in black and white, for no particular reason at all:

Happy Monday.

Saturday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

There is the beginning of a low, persistent rain. I stare out of the window, willing it on, thinking of the thirsty flowers. Everything is so dry here. The first of the chanterelles appeared last week, and this evening I went out looking for them, and they had gone. The most promising clump has shrivelled away to nothing. I assume it can only be because of the arid conditions. I had been dreaming all afternoon of a chanterelle omelette, and I had to make a shiitake one instead, which is not the same at all.

We did see one of the young deer, though. Last time I saw him, a couple of weeks ago, he was not much bigger than the dogs. Now he has grown into a fine, sturdy fellow of perhaps ten hands. He is bright chestnut, a vivid flash of amber against the deep green trees. He bounded out of the woods, paused for a moment to stare at us, and then leapt on, moving in great arcing jumps. One last flash, and he was gone.

The dogs stood stock still and watched him. The one thing I have been able to train them to do is not to chase the deer. A keeper I knew used to tell me blood-curdling tales of mother deer defending their young by splitting a dog's skull open with their front hooves.

Mushrooms, nil. Deer, one. It was a pretty good result, really.

Here are some pictures of the garden and round about, before the rain came:

 

I always forget to link to other people, especially Sarah, and now I can't link to her at all because of The Times' paywall. Today I shall remember, because my friend Terence Blacker has an excellent article about Cuba and moral relativism here.

I am always astonished by moral relativists. It's like when you meet someone who has absolutely no charm at all, and never tried to get any; it's so odd, it takes you a few minutes to work out what it is. To say Cuba is marvellous because of the healthcare and the literacy rate, which people on the Left (who should be my people) often do, is to say that it's fine to lock up librarians and university professors and trannies and poofs because the kids can read and the doctors are models of efficiency. It's also hideously patronising to the Cubans themselves, as if they don't deserve, or don't need, or could not cope with democracy. Don't worry about that pesky lack of freedom of expression; look at your lovely, shiny hospital.

That's quite enough ranting for one Saturday. I shall go back to contemplating the rain.

Thank you again for all your wonderful comments over the last week. Have a very happy weekend.

Writing, Day Five

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

My students have undone me. They were so good today they  made me cry. I am not being figurative or hyperbolic. Actual salt water sprang from my eyes.

'It's the Irish in me,' I said, all gruff and embarrassed. Because as every fule no, the Irish never stop weeping for a single solitary second; the streets of Dublin swim in rivers of tears.

Also: they gave me a fuchsia. A FUSCIA. It is the fattest, most gaudy peacock of a fuchsia I ever saw. And cards filled with kind messages, and a lovely tray made of willow, and all sorts.

Most of all, they gave me their trust. They wrote so well and bravely today that I ran out of superlatives.

As a result, I can't really remember much of what I spoke about today, let alone summon the vigour to write it all down. (You can find a full version of last year's class here.)

But I cannot leave you without a few final snippets.

I talked of the dull practical things:

Get an agent. Never send anything directly to a publisher; it will end up on the slush pile, and that will make you sad. Consult the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook, send a polite covering letter, a one-page synopsis, and the first three chapters. Polish these to within an inch of their lives. If there is one grocer's apostrophe, or a single misuse of the words imply and infer, or even the hint of a dangling modifier, no one will ever take you seriously in this town again. Make sure everything is double spaced. No fancy fonts, now. Times New Roman point 12 is an excellent, professional choice.

Research. Do as much as you can, as fast as you can. I find if you do it intensively, it is more likely to live in your head, and you do not have to spend half your time consulting your copious notes. Be ruthlessly vigilant about anachronisms. If someone answers a telephone before Alexander Graham Bell was even born, the fourth wall is broken, the suspension of disbelief is lost, and your brilliant historical novel lies in ruins at your feet.

More generally:

Search always for the clear spine of your story. You can do diversions and tangents (I am addicted to tangents) and musings, but always return to that lovely, central arrow. If the spine is not strong, the thing will not hold.

I always remember that line from Amadeus, when the Emperor told Mozart: 'Too many notes'. Sometimes there are just too many notes. Get out your secateurs and prune.

On a related note: you always have to kill your darlings. Be alert for any whiff of self-indulgence. The phrase or the paragraph or the idiom might be lovely in itself; it might make you laugh; but if it is not pulling its weight in the piece, it has to go. I find the process of darling murder so agonising that I keep a special file titled: Dead Darlings. That way I do not have to do daily battle with the delete button. Like the Norwegian parrot, they are not quite dead, they are just resting.

Be bold. Take risks. Remember, no one is ever going to see your first draft. If you fall flat on your face, it will only be in the privacy of your own boudoir.

EM Forster said a marvellous, true thing. He said: 'The king died and then the queen died' is a story. 'The king died and then the queen died of grief' is a plot.

Hemingway also said something that I think is shiningly true. He said: Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it - don't cheat with it. (I have a suspicion that he was writing to F Scott Fitzgerald when he said that, but I cannot be quite certain.)

I say: in the end, you have to do it for the love of the thing itself. You should write because you cannot not write. Writing is difficult, and baffling, and maddening, but it also holds a lot of joy. I think we write to make sense of the world, which often has no sense. I think we write to explain ourselves to ourselves. If you lose the joy, there is not much point to going on. Getting published, getting paid, getting nice reviews are not nothing, but they will not solve any of your problems. Seeing your name in print is an undeniable thrill. But really, that is all jam. The important thing is the writing itself, and, at the risk of sounding like a bumper sticker, I do think that has to come from love.

 

To any of my students who might be reading this: thank you. You gave me a great gift this week.

To all of you wonderfully kind people out there in the blogosphere, thank you for reading, and for your lovely, generous comments. They make me smile.

I wish you all great joy in your writing.

 

I leave you with the words of Jack Kerouac:

Be in love with yr life

Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind

Blow as deep as you want to blow

Write what you want bottomless from the bottom of the mind

Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition

Write in recollection and amazement for yourself

 

Pictures of the day are of the dogs, because a Friday is not a Friday without a snapshot of canine gorgeousness:

I must thank my darling mum, who looked after them all week, while I was out teaching.

And I would like to thank the Academy…(writer is gently removed, and relocated to a darkened room).