Thursday extracts. A vivid picture from Kate Mosse.

The sun climbed ever higher in the sky. The churchmen suffered the most in their black worsted habits. Rivulets of sweat were dripping down the Bishop's forehead and Jehan Congost's spongy face had turned an unpleasant blotchy red, the colour of foxgloves.

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Labyrinth
Kate Mosse
2005
Orion Press

Marmalade?

The King's Breakfast
 A A Milne

     The King asked

     The Queen, and

     The Queen asked

     The Dairymaid:

     “Could we have some butter for

     The Royal slice of bread?”

     The Queen asked

     The Dairymaid,

     The Dairymaid

     Said, “Certainly,

     I’ll go and tell

     The cow

     Now

     Before she goes to bed.”

 

     The Dairymaid

     She curtsied,

     And went and told

     The Alderney:

     “Don’t forget the butter for

     The Royal slice of bread.”

 

     The Alderney

     Said sleepily:

     “You’d better tell

     His Majesty

     That many people nowadays

     Like marmalade

     Instead.”

 

     The Dairymaid

     Said, “Fancy!”

     And went to

     Her Majesty.

     She curtsied to the Queen, and

     She turned a little red:

     “Excuse me,

     Your Majesty,

     For taking of

     The liberty,

     But marmalade is tasty, if

     It’s very

     Thickly

     Spread.”

 

     The Queen said

     “Oh!”

     And went to

     His Majesty:

     “Talking of the butter for

     The Royal slice of bread,

     Many people

     Think that

     Marmalade

     Is nicer.

     Would you like to try a little

     Marmalade

     Instead?”

     The King said,

     “Bother!”

     And then he said,

     “Oh, dear me!”

     The King sobbed, “Oh, deary me!”

     And went back to bed.

     “Nobody,”

     He whimpered,

     “Could call me

     A fussy man;

     I only want

     A little bit

     Of butter for

     My bread!”

     The Queen said,

     “There, there!”

     And went to

     The Dairymaid.

     The Dairymaid

     Said, “There, there!”

     And went to the shed.

     The cow said,

     “There, there!

     I didn’t really

     Mean it;

     Here’s milk for his porringer

     And butter for his bread.”

 

     The Queen took

     The butter

     And brought it to

     His Majesty;

     The King said,

     “Butter, eh?”

     And bounced out of bed.

     “Nobody,” he said,

     As he kissed her

     Tenderly,

     “Nobody,” he said,

     As he slid down

     The banisters,

     “Nobody,

     My darling,

     Could call me

     A fussy man—

     BUT

I do like a little bit of butter to my bread!”

Thursday extracts: fossil hunting

At the bottom of the cliff path we turned left and began to pick our way across the pebbles until I found a place that I thought was a potentially rich seam for my search. I looked around and found several larger pebbles that appeared to be weathered clumps of limestone. I knew they could contain fossils and explained to Dad why I had chosen them and what to look for. For once I felt that I knew more than him about a topic and it filled me with a thrill that I was delighted to experience. He was impressed with what I knew and wanted to learn from me, for once, rather than our usual roles. I hammered each stone, tapping gently until it broke open. Some revealed ancient shell forms and ocean animals from millions of years ago. Most were simply lumps of limestone. As I collected my first few specimens I dropped them into a canvas shoulder bag that was slung across my body. We continued to work our way slowly along the cliff foot and my collection started to grow. From time to time Dad would find a likely piece of stone and he would hand it to me, silently, or with a slight, questioning sound that implied that he was asking my opinion.

After a while we stopped and sat on two suitable boulders while we ate our sandwiches and drank our tea. The day was fine and the sun shone brightly, just over the edge of the cliff, so we were warm but out of the direct rays. It was a perfect place to be. The sea was calm and made very little sound as its waves lapped gently back and forth over the rocks. And all the time we could hear above the sea’s hum, the crash and boom of the gannets as they fished just offshore. I felt like I could have stayed there forever and Dad obviously felt the same way. With lunch finished, we packed away our flask and sandwich bags and continued our hunt along the cliff until finally Dad looked at his watch and said, “We ought to be getting back to the car if you have enough fossils for your project.” I assured him that I had made a great haul and agreed that we should go. We turned to head back along the cliff foot and suddenly realised our mistake. While we had been ambling along the beach the tide had turned and was headed back at an alarming rate. What was more, we had not noticed as we fossil-hunted that we had gone past a small promontory and we could not reach the seaward point of it before the tide did. We were going to be cut off very quickly.

The Wise Child
Anne Jeffery
2010
Download it from Lulu.com

Thursday Extracts: Maureen Johnson, on not taking drastic measures

"What you don't realise at the time is that you're not seeing the full picture," Peter went on. "You don't think about the fact that things will change. Things always change."

*******

The Boy in the Smoke
Maureen Johnson
2014
Hot Key Books, London

Thursday extracts: Keeping a diary

The diary was Renee's idea. She ran across it last week and decided on the spot that it was time for me to start writing things down. That evening over dinner she made such a solemn ceremony out of giving it to me that I felt like Moses on Mount Sinai. Since then so help me she hasn't stopped peeping at me sideways, watching my every move, waiting breathlessly for the muse to strike.

I probably shouldn't start until my period is over, just to keep the pissing and moaning to a minimum, but Renee says that's exactly the time I should be writing. Some journal expert she saw on Oprah says all the important stuff happens while you're feeling like a piece of shit; you just don't realise it until later.

Maybe the Moon
Armistead Maupin
1992

Thursday Extracts: Precautions against leprosy

“Now mark this well, for these are the rules you must henceforth live by. You are forbidden to enter a church, a tavern, or a bakery or to go into any place where Christian souls meet. You are forbidden to wash in a stream or drink except of that water which has been placed in your cup. You must not touch food, or garments, or well ropes, or anything that Christian souls might touch. You must never go barefoot. When you buy food you must not hand your coin to the merchant, but place it instead in a bowl of vinegar. You must not eat or drink except in the company of others like yourself. You are forbidden to have intercourse with any woman. You are forbidden to come near a child. If you meet any person on the road you must step off it and warn them not to approach you. You must not pass down any narrow street or lane lest you brush against a Christian soul. You shall sound the leper’s clapper to warn godly souls of your approach. You must wear at all times the appointed garb so that all men may see at once what you are. When you die you shall be buried outside the parish bounds and may God give you grace to bear your suffering in true humility.”
The Owl Killers
Karen Maitland

That feeling of isolation....

It is never completely silent inside a space suit; you can always hear the gentle hiss of oxygen, the faint whir of fans and motors, the susurration of your own breathing—even, if you listen carefully enough, the rhythmic thump that is the pounding of your heart. These sounds reverberate through the suit, unable to escape into the surrounding void; they are the unnoticed background of life in space, for you are aware of them only when they change.

From
The Haunted Space Suit
by Arthur C. Clarke
1958

*************
The guy was writing brilliant prose while I was still in nappies.

Thursday extracts:The view

Where the road descends from the summit, the whole valley opens out, hills sweeping back as far as the eye can see to a range of lavender mountains pasted against the rim of the sky. The August heat shimmered in silence. The land seemed vast and primitive, looking as it must have looked for thousands of years. In the distance, live oaks dotted the landscape, as snaggy and dark and hunched as buffalo.

C is for Corpse
Sue Grafton

********

I rarely do scenery descriptions in my work. Perhaps I should attempt a few.

Now that April's here........ (Thursday extracts)

Home Thoughts From Abroad

O, to be in England   
Now that April 's there,   
And whoever wakes in England   
Sees, some morning, unaware,   
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf            
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,   
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough   
In England—now!

Robert Browning (1812 - 1889)
Poem dated 1845

Thursday extracts: It's still snowing!

April Snow

by Caroline Spencer

The green was creeping o'er the brown,
The skies dropt bluebirds yesterday;
Again today the snow is down,
And spring a thousand miles away.


Full text here.

Yeah - I know it's still March. But it won't be on Monday.

Thursday Extracts: Smile

Smile though your heart is aching
Smile even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You'll see the sun come shining through for you

Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear may be ever so near
That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile

That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile

*************************
Words by John Turner and Geoffrey Parsons, to a tune by Charlie Chaplin

If you'd like to listen to is sung by the great Nat King Cole click here

Not just for Valentine's Day

Perhaps love is like a resting place
A shelter from the storm
It exists to give you comfort
It is there to keep you warm
And in those times of trouble
When you are most alone
The memory of love will bring you home

Perhaps love is like a window
Perhaps an open door
It invites you to come closer
It wants you to show you more
And even when you lose yourself
And don't know what to do
The memory of love will see you through

Oh, love to some is like cloud
To some as strong as steel
For some a way of living
For some a way to feel
And some say love is holding on
And some say letting go
And some love is everything
Others, they don't know

Perhaps love is like the ocean
Full of conflict full of pain
Like a fire when its cold outside
Or thunder when it rains
If I should live forever
And all my dreams come true
My memories of love will be of you

Thursday extracts: cormorant

The common cormorant or shag
Lays eggs inside a paper bag.
The reason you will see, no doubt,
It is to keep the lightning out.
But what these unobservant birds
Have failed to notice is that herds
Of wandering bears may come with buns
And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.

 Anon

Thursday extracts: defined by your shape

The entire man was a grimace. A large head bristling with red hair; between his shoulders an enormous hump, with a corresponding prominence in front; legs and thighs so singularly crooked that they touched only at the knees, and, seen from the front, resembled two reaping-hooks united at the handle; broad feet, huge hands; and, with all this deformity, a certain awe-inspiring air of vigor, agility, and courage; strange exception to the rule which declares power, as well as beauty, to be the result of harmony,—such was the pope whom the fools had chosen to reign over them.

He looked like a giant broken to pieces and badly cemented together.

When this species of Cyclop appeared upon the threshold of the chapel, motionless, thickset, almost as broad as he was long, “the square of his base,” as a great man once expressed it, the people recognized him instantly, by his party-colored red and purple coat spangled with silver, and particularly by the perfection of his ugliness, and cried aloud with one voice:—

“It is Quasimodo, the bell-ringer! It is Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre-Dame! Quasimodo, the one-eyed! Quasimodo, the bandy-legged!

The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Victor Hugo

Thursday extracts: weather

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,

In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled—marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.   London Snow
Robert Bridges 1844–1930

*******************

Seemed fitting. Although the most we've had overnight is three inches. And I'm nowhere near London.

Thursday extracts: the nature of vampires

Your
conscience is
the measure of the
honesty of your selfishness.
Listen to it
carefully.





"We are all free to do whatever we want to do,” he said that night. “Isn’t that simple and clean and clear? Isn’t that a great way to run a universe?”

Almost. You forgot a pretty important part,” I said.

“Oh?”

“We are all free to do what we want to do, as long as we don’t hurt somebody else,” I chided. “I know you meant that, but you ought to say what you mean.”

There was a sudden shambling sound in the dark, and I looked at him quickly. “Did you hear that?”“Yeah. Sounds like there’s somebody...” He got up, walked into the dark. He laughed suddenly, said a name I couldn’t catch.

“It’s OK,” I heard him say. “No, we’d be glad to have you... no need you standing around... come on, you’re welcome, really...”

The voice was heavily accented, not quite Russian, nor Czech,more Transylvanian. “Thank you. I do not wish to impose myself upon your evening...”

The man he brought with him to the firelight was, well, he was unusual to find in a midwest night. A small lean wolflike fellow, frightening to the eye, dressed in evening clothes, a black cape lined in red satin, he was uncomfortable in the light.

“I was passing by,” he said. “The field is a shortcut to my house...”

“Is it?” Shimoda did not believe the man, knew he was lying, and at the same time did all he could to keep from laughing out loud. I hoped to understand before long.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I said. “Can we help you at all?”

I really didn’t feel that helpful, but he was so shrinking, I did want him to be at ease, if he could.

He looked on me with a desperate smile that turned me to ice.

“Yes, you can help me. I need this very much or I would not ask. May I drink your blood? Just some? It is my food, I need human blood...”

Maybe it was the accent, he didn’t know English that well or I didn’t understand his words, but I was on my feet quicker than I had been in many a month, hay flying into the fire from my quickness.

The man stepped back. I am generally harmless, but I am not a small person and I could have looked threatening. He turned his head away. “Sir, I am sorry! I am sorry! Please forget that I said anything about blood! But you see...”

“What are you saying?” I was the more fierce because I was scared. “What in the hell are you saying, mister? I don’t know what you are, are you some kind of VAM-?”

Shimoda cut me off before I could say the word. “Richard, our guest was talking, and you interrupted. Please go ahead, sir; my friend is a little hasty.”

“Donald,” I said, “this guy...”

“Be quiet!”

That surprised me so much that I was quiet, and looked a sort of terrified question at the man, caught from his native darkness into our firelight.

“Please to understand. I did not choose to be born vampire. Is unfortunate. I do not have many friends. But I must have a certain small amount of fresh blood every night or I writhe in terrible pain, longer than that without it and I cannot live! Please, I will be deeply hurt - I will die - if you do not allow me to suck your blood... just a small amount, more than a pint I do not need.” He advanced a step toward me, licking his lips, thinking that Shimoda somehow controlled me and would make me submit.

“One more step and there will be blood, all right. Mister, you touch me and you die...” I wouldn’t have killed him, but I did want to tie him up, at least, before we talked much more.

He must have believed me, for he stopped and sighed. He turned to Shimoda. “You have made your point?”

“I think so. Thank you.” The vampire looked up at me and smiled, completely at ease, enjoying himself hugely, an actor on stage when the show is over.

“I won’t drink your blood, Richard,” he said in perfect friendly English, no accent at all. As I watched he faded as though he was turning out his own light... in five seconds he had disappeared.

Shimoda sat down again by the fire. “Am I ever glad you don’t mean what you say!”

I was still trembling with adrenalin, ready for my fight with a monster. “Don, I’m not sure I’m built for this. Maybe you’d better

tell me what’s going on. Like, for instance, what... was that?”

“Dot was a wompire from Tronsylwania,” he said in words thicker than the creature’s own. “Or to be more precise, dot was a thought-form of a wompire from Tronsylwania. If you ever want to make a point, you think somebody isn’t listening, whip ‘em up a little thought-form to demonstrate what you mean. Do you think I overdid him, with the cape and the fangs and the accent like that?

Was he too scary for you?”

“The cape was first class, Don. But that was the most stereotyped, outlandish... I wasn’t scared at all.”

He sighed. “Oh well. But you got the point, at least, and that’s what matters.”

“What point?”

“Richard, in being so fierce toward my vampire, you were doing what you wanted to do, even though you thought it was

going to hurt somebody else. He even told you he’d be hurt if...”

“He was going to suck my blood!”

“Which is what we do to anyone when we say we’ll be hurt if they don’t live our way.”

I was quiet for a long time, thinking about that. I had always believed that we are free to do as we please only if we don’t hurt another, and this didn’t fit. There was something missing.

“The thing that puzzles you,” he said, “is an accepted saying that happens to be impossible. The phrase is hurt somebody else. We choose, ourselves, to be hurt or not to be hurt, no matter what. Us who decides. Nobody else. My vampire told you he’d be hurt if you didn’t let him? That’s his decision to be hurt, that’s his choice. What you do about it is your decision, your choice: give him blood; ignore him; tie him up; drive a stake of holly through his heart. If he doesn’t want the holly stake, he’s free to resist, in whatever way he wants. It goes on and on, choices, choices.”

“When you look at it that way...”

“Listen,” he said, “it’s important. We are all. Free. To do. Whatever. We want. To do.

******************
Illusions
Richard Bach
1977

Thursday extracts: Pratchett and names

Whenever I write, one of my biggest challenges comes in finding believable names for my characters. I sometimes stoop to wandering around churchyards looking for suitable contributions from headstones.  Terry Pratchett has no such problem. The names he creates are instantly recognisable, even when they are totally insane.  In Dodger, his latest novel, the story is set in Dickensian London, and the dramatis personae includes some wonderfully descriptive names.

The dog is called Onan, by the way. I had to look that one up.

********************

Some of the lads and lasses were drinking outside the Gunner's Daughter, sitting on the old barrels, bundles of rope, hopeless piles of rotting wood and all the other debris of the riverside. Sometimes it seemed to Dodger that the city and the river were simply all the same creature except for the fact tht some parts were a lot more soggy than others. 

Right now, in this tangled, smelly but usually cheerful disarray, he recognised Bent Henry, Lucy Diver, One-Armed-Dave, Preacher, Mary-Go-Round, Messy Bessie and Mangle.

Dodger
Terry Pratchett
2012

Thursday extracts: James Stephens on women's difficulties

In the centre of the pine wood called Coilla Doraca there lived not long ago two Philosophers. They were wiser than anything else in the world except the Salmon who lies in the pool of Glyn Cagny into which the nuts of knowledge fall from the hazel bush on its bank. He, of course, is the most profound of living creatures, but the two Philosophers are next to him in wisdom. Their faces looked as though they were made of parchment, there was ink under their nails, and every difficulty that was submitted to them, even by women, they were able to instantly resolve. The Grey Woman of Dun Gortin and the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath asked them the three questions which nobody had ever been able to answer, and they were able to answer them. That was how they obtained the enmity of these two women which is more valuable than the friendship of angels. The Grey Woman and the Thin Woman were so incensed at being answered that they married the two Philosophers in order to be able to pinch them in bed, but the skins of the Philosophers were so thick that they did not know they were being pinched. They repaid the fury of the women with such tender affection that these vicious creatures almost expired of chagrin, and once, in a very ecstacy of exasperation, after having been kissed by their husbands, they uttered the fourteen hundred maledictions which comprised their wisdom, and these were learned by the Philosophers who thus became even wiser than before.

The Crock of Gold
James Stephens
1912

Thursday extracts: Yorkshire politics

Religion, when we were kids, was all about control. It was about the ruling classes being hand-in-glove with the church to keep ordinary, hard-working people terrified of having a mind of their own.

Sally Wainwright
Last Tango in Halifax
(BBC drama. Delivered by the character Alan, played by Derek Jacobi.)

Thursday extracts: Wrong time of year

I walked about on my own, a bit lonely.
Suddenly I saw a whole lot of yellow flowers with long stalks.
They were right by a pond under some trees and the wind was
blowing them about a bit.
They seemed to go on and on, great rows of them.
I realised with one look there were masses of them all
moving about on the wind.
Now, when I'm lying on my bed, with nothing to do or feeling
a bit low, I think about those yellow flowers and it sort of
cheers me up, like.

Jill Streatfield
With apologies to Wordsworth

***********
OK - so I know it's the wrong season. But it's funny. Right?