A title waiting for a book

Can the book possibly life up to the title? (It got a rave review in my newspaper on Friday.)

By the sea at Swansea

"You're only a doll with the paint flaking off" (Serafina to the Virgin)

Just seen an excellent production of The Rose Tattoo at the National.

An emotional note in the programme by Nicholas Hytner about the director Steven Pimlott, who died during the rehearsals, says "When [Pimlott's cancer] went into remission last autumn, it was to The Rose Tattoo that we returned. Neither of us said it, but it seemed an urgent necessity to stage one of the twentieth century's most life-affirming plays." Well, I'm an old cynic so, with all due respect to Pimlottt and Hytner, I'm afraid that reading that just before the curtain went up just made me determined not to fall for any of that "life-affirming" nonsense.

But in the event my resolution went by the board as I was quite won over by the performances of Zoe Wanamaker and Darrell D'Silva. My cynicism went the same way as Serafina's shrine to the Virgin.

Blogging stupidity

How thoughtless of me to post last week Shelley's poem about the capricious nature of inspiration just before I had scheduled a concentrated period of writing. Talk about tempting fate!

30 hours in Birmingham

I love snow and all the forms

I've just read over breakfast Anthony Payne connecting this poem with Elgar, who wrote the first lines at the head of his second symphony.

Song

Rarely, rarely comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismayed;
Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not her.

Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure; —
Thou wilt never come for pity,
Thou wilt come for pleasure;
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight!
The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed,
And the starry night;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Everything almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,
And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good;
Between thee and me
What difference? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love — though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
But above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee —
Thou art love and life! O come!
Make once more my heart thy home!

Shelley