When I was ten years old I had a long summer holiday while both my parents worked,with no siblings and no neighbourhood friends. Long days at our suburban pool were idyllic at first but soon monotonous,although I can still recall clearly lying on a damp towel(just an ordinary towel - no beach towels for our family,and no interstate vacations in those days),my cheek resting on the backs of my hands millimetres from the radiant heat of the concrete and the now poignant odour of steaming chlorine.Carefree but aimless,I gradually developed a yearning for stimulation.In due course I found my way to the local library,by which I mean my mother told me to stop complaining of boredom and go and read some books.
I hung around the library,marvelling at the number of books and their scientific-looking numbers.I took part in chess competitions and other activities independent of school or family for the first time.And I read books.I decided that I would read the most impressive grown-up book I could think of:-David Copperfield,since I had heard of Charles Dickens and it seemed to be a story about a young boy.Surprisingly I read nearly all of the seven hundred and twenty one pages,including characters such as Peggotty the faithful maid,Mr Micawber the eternal optimist and the oily Uriah Heep,though there was no one who wanted to talk about it with me.In fact I couldn't find anyone who had actually read the novel from beginning to end.Eventually,like a marathon runner who has hit the wall ,and discouraged by the hero's now less interesting adult life, I stopped and started then ran out of enthusiasm at around page seven hundred,metaphorically within sight of the finish line,not literally but literarily falling at the the last hurdle.I still don't know anyone who has read the whole book,even though it is said to have been the favourite novel of both Tolstoy and Freud and widely admired.Though memorable it cured me of any desire to read further novels of Dickens,or indeed any long-winded authors of turgid historical writing styles.So I looked for something more suitable for a ten year old boy.
In those days there seemed to be very little written for an intellectually adventurous child,although I eventually discovered the exciting possibilities of science fiction through John Wyndham. There was a tiny section of books designated as Adolescent Fiction,but sadly most books were more interesting to girls,such as Anne of Green Gables and similar stories.At last I found a book in that category which I could read ,apparently translated from the writings of a dutchman called Erasmus Desiderius.
I didn't know he was a famous Renaissance humanist and theologian,great friend of Sir Thomas More,inspiration and adversary of Martin Luther and satirical critic of corruption in the established Catholic Church in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries.He was funny and witty, and used literary irony which was previously unknown to me.
I read a little more of his writings at each visit to the library,wishing that there were other similar authors.Later,I worked my way through P.G.Wodehouse and Seventeenth Century English Poetry. The only poems I liked were those of John Donne,although Andrew Marvell was ok I thought.
On my way home from work today I caught an interview with Kevin Hart,a theologian and poet,who brought those days to mind again through his link between theology and poetry which seems interesting,related as it is to his exploration of counter-experience and the limits of language in expressing concepts of revelation and the sublime.I get the idea although I think much poetry is almost by definition an exploration of the capacity of words to communicate the mysterious nature of human experience so he's not really alone there.However he really needs to take a good hard look at his prose.Here is an example, admittedly removed from its context,taken from a broad review of systematic texts of theology:-"Sure enough, his attempt to save reflective philosophy from becoming idealism by leaguing it with hermeneutics is broadly indebted to Heidegger's reflections on the onto-theiological constitution of metaphysics."This type of writing makes me think fondly of another writer I discovered in that library - he wrote this:-
The Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
upon
the red wheel
barrow
beside the white
chickens
William Carlos Williams.He expressed the sublime in simple words.
No comments:
Post a Comment