Happy Birthday, Lord Byron

Happy Birthday, Byron. Here we are at your glorious home about ten years ago. When we arrived we had to stay in the car for ten minutes as we were greeted by a sudden, ferocious thunder storm complete with forked lightning. How very apt, we thought. And how unnerving it was. And I still get a shiver down my spine when I recall how that beautiful peacock looked right into my soul when our eyes met. xx

 

Nobody Reads Gogol Round Here

I recently discovered that a book by a writer called Mark Hodkinson had been published with the rather humorous title, Nobody Reads Tolstoy Round Here. I haven't actually read it myself, but reading a Guardian review, it certainly got my mind racing. The premise of the book seems to centre on Hodkinson's "addiction" to books, and how he even sought advice from a therapist because he felt that perhaps there was something wrong with his great love of books. Sadly, this very fact has probably put me off actually wanting to read it, as it stands in direct opposition to the heartbreak I sometimes feel when it comes to my actual collection of books (my library, darlings). If it were possible, I would dearly love to actually have every single book I have ever owned (or borrowed from a library, for that matter). But, for financial, and particularly, actual available physical space reasons, that has been impossible. My wife and I lived in bedsits for almost ten years and the space we had was minimal, with most of my books stored with friends or family members. In 2014, we were able to move into a flat and we had more room, and thus, a good many of my favourites were able to be back at home with us, and this was a wonderful feeling. But, then, in 2022, I had a very dangerous severe allergic reaction to mould, which hospitalised me for over two weeks and, because of which, we discovered our flat had appalling damp problems that had been completely ignored by our landlord, who then had to rip out entire parts of the flat and refurbish it before it was safe enough for me to return home to. As well as the shock of my health situation, this also led to the heart-breaking discovery that pretty much three quarters of my library had become mould-ridden and would be unsafe for me to hold or be within breathing distance of. I can recall with great sadness how my wife went through the titles of each book in our little garden, with me sitting about fifteen feet away, as she inspected each one and I wrote down the titles of the many that simply had to go. I was just relieved to still be in the land of the living after the severe allergic reaction I'd just had, so it didn't quite hit me at the time how tragic a situation this actually was, but once the dust had settled (so to speak), and I looked at what remained of my severely deleted library and looked through the now absent list of a deeply loved (not to mention the rare actual value, and even greater irreplaceable sentimental value) collection of a lifetime, and the heart-breaking reality of the situation truly hit home. And just as an added bit of salt in that gaping wound, the allergic reaction that recently had made me so unwell had also left me with a much higher sensitivity to mould, thus meaning that treasured older editions of books (a type I dearly love), would be too risky for me to not only own, but even risk borrowing from a library. Ah, Life can indeed, at times, be a Pigsty, as one great lyricist so accurately wrote. 

But, there is a silver lining to this black cloud, and it came through a type of reading that I was initially extremely mistrustful of, and resisted until I realised it was a consoling way of soothing my aching heart:

Online reading.

Of course, it's not like the real thing. Nothing can ever beat that entire sensual experience of reading a physical book. Especially when it's a treasured edition. One of the greatest losses from my library was a 1949, Secker & Warburg first English edition of Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann. I still feel this loss deeply, even though I have replaced it with (thank goodness, a very handsome hardback Everyman's Library edition), as it just radiated magic. I remember buying it in Manchester, around 2000, in a second hand book shop where it was waiting for me, in a glass cabinet, where it proceeded to somehow choose me, rather than me choose it. The dark green caught the eye immediately, and the gold lettering gave it a genuine sense of mystery and class. It also felt wonderful to the touch, as it was made of a soft felt material, despite it having the sturdiness of a hardback edition, and because it had been so well cared for, the pages had a subtle smell, and it felt like I was holding a sacred charm in my hands whenever I picked it up. And then there was my history with it. The first time I tried to read it, I had to give up about half way through as it was just too dense for me to make sense of or connect with. And so it sat on my bookshelf, like a diamond, patiently waiting for the time when I was ready to take it up again. Which happened, I would estimate, about 2006, and by this time I was in a place where I could understand and appreciate its strange wonders, and as I read I became utterly enthralled yet terrified of its haunting contents. To this day, it is one of my favourite ever reads, and I am looking forward immensely to taking it up again, in the Everyman's edition I now own, in the not too distant future. But, I digress slightly, back to online reading! For to my utter delight, most of those beloved books are available in their entirety online, via websites such as Internet Archive, Project Gutenberg, and Scribd, and I thought it might be a nice thing to take a little personal journey through them here, in no particular order. 

1. Robert Wernaer, Romanticism and the Romantic School in Germany (1910)

I will forever recall finding this treasure chest of a book whilst in Edinburgh, and being captivated by its contents. I was still in the relatively early days of my coming to understand the different strands of Romanticism, and this glorious book was the key to unlocking so much of its majesty to my ever hungry, enquiring mind. I had heard of the writer Novalis before, but this book introduced me to the hypnotising symbolism of Novalis's Blue Flower (it represents "sehnsucht," that is, deep longing or desperate yearning), and made my heart and soul almost explode with overflowing emotion and made me truly realise just how out of step with the times and my contemporaries I really was. Here was a book published in 1920, written by a commentator fervently praising these rebellious, passionate young poets and writers of the 18th and 19th centuries, with names such as Novalis, Tieck and Eichendorff, and I felt like I had far more in common with them than with the culture of my time. This was my stepping stone into the haunting worlds of Dark German Romantic Fairy Tales, such as Motte la Fouque's devastating, mysterious tale Undine, about a mermaid in search of a soul, Friedrich Schegel's erotic, feminist (and banned at the time), Lucinde, which dared to propound the fact that women actually had sexual desires, too, and, of course, the tragic but transcendental Novalis, with his Blue Flower tale, Henry von Ofterdingen, and his gothic masterpiece, Hymns to the Night. I simply can't imagine not having these influences in my life, and the door to them was initially opened for me by this long out of print, 1910 hardcover edition that I discovered on a trip to the Festival in Edinburgh in 2001. Knowing it is available online certainly helps minimise the sadness I feel at having to lose this book that would still have such a treasured place in my library.

https://archive.org/details/romanticismandr00werngoog/page/n12/mode/2up?view=theater

2. Molly Lefebure: Samuel Taylor Coleridge: A Bondage of Opium (1974)

Again, this is a book that opened my mind to the greatness and tragedy of one of my favourite poets, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Just the cover grabbed my attention when I first saw it. There was Coleridge, aged just 42 years of age and looking like the perfect Romantic with his white ruffles, and yet, looking so much older with his full head of bright white hair. As he said of himself, at 42, "In all but the Brain, an old man!" But, again, there was something seductively gothic and even risque about it. The sleeve was coloured opal grey, and the two words, "bondage" and "opium" suggested something decadent and secretive about its contents. Again, this was a glorious hardcover addition, and as I read about the often very melancholy aspects of Coleridge's life and how he first became addicted to opium, at a time when there was no knowledge of how addiction actually affects the body physiologically, I found, at the same time as learning a lot about addiction, about Coleridge's struggles with illness (one chapter is called 'The Tyranny of the Body'), and unknowingly discovered another much admired hero figure. For despite his struggles, Coleridge touched the divine. It was fleeting, admittedly, but without doubt, here was a figure who had been in direct contact with the sublime, and it is there in his 'Kubla Khan' and 'Christabel' (among others) poems, of which my own appreciative knowledge was now greatly deepened. Understandably, this book is also a great loss to me, and it is a great comfort to know that I can still open it and read it online whenever I feel the urge to do so.

https://archive.org/details/samueltaylorcole0000lefe_i6w3/mode/2up

3. Nikolai Gogol, Taras Bulba and Other Tales (1962)

This was a treasured, pocket sized Everyman's Library hardback edition from 1962, and it was because of one particular story in it that I loved it so much: The Mysterious Portrait. Gogol has been a figure that has a special place in my heart, for when my very fine lady and I were in our courting days, I serenaded her with Gogol's fabulous and fantastical tales, and Diary of a Madman, and The Nose had us both laughing till the tears rolled down our faces. But they were in a Penguin Classics edition I had, and nowhere else was that strange, eerie tale, The Mysterious Portrait available, than here. I did read Taras Bulba, trouper that I am, but it wasn't that main story that I loved about this little edition. It is another that I am greatly relieved is available online, as it is a story I will return to many more times, I am sure.

https://archive.org/details/tarasbulba0000unse/mode/2up?view=theater

4. Joachim Mass, Kleist: A Biography (1983)

This incredible biography of the tragic genius, Heinrich von Kleist, left an indelible mark on my psyche that will remain for as long as I am on this earth. Having previously read the Penguin Classics edition of Kleist's stories and novellas, I was intrigued to know more about this unusual and uncanny German post-Romantic writer. His stories had left a very deep impression on me, as they often explored situations that put his human, all-too- human characters in very extreme situations, thereby challenging pretty much everything we as a liberal society consider to be the morals of our reality. But Kleist's writings became clearer to me after I read this brilliant book, for his life actually unfolded in an eerily similar manner to the characters in his absorbing but unsettling stories. I look forward to rereading Kleist's tragic biography once again in the future.

https://archive.org/details/kleistbiography0000maas/page/n5/mode/2up?view=theater

5. William Anderson, Dante the Maker (1980)

This was one of my favourite books around 1997/98, and it was invaluable in helping me try to get a deeper understanding of Dante's La Vita Nuova and The Divine Comedy. Those works, particularly The Divine Comedy, are rich in allegory and symbolism, and I can clearly recall reading it and making copious notes during a two week admission to hospital in Liverpool for an exacerbation of my CF. For this reason alone it contained links to my past that were very precious to me, not to mention that it helped me have a better understanding of Dante himslf, and it saddens me hugely that this was another book that simply couldn't stay with me. But, to soften the blow, it is available here in its entirety. Another precious book to add to my reread list.

https://archive.org/details/dantemaker0000ande/page/n5/mode/2up

6. Hermann Hesse, If the War Goes On (1971)

My Taid loved reading, and during the last few years of his life, he moved into my mum's place, and many were the evenings there were when he and I sat up talking about pretty much everything under the sun, from politics and history through to the Welsh international footy team, Everton F.C and how money was destroying the game that we had both once loved so deeply: top flight professional football. I had bought If The War Goes On by Hesse in a huge, famous second hand book shop in Llangollen, and I recall very fondly reading aloud a couple of chapters to my Taid, which concluded with us discussing what I'd just read in great detail. For a moment, it was almost like being in a Thomas Mann novel. Hesse's If the War Goes On, a diatribe against fascism and imperialist war machines, struck a very deep chord with both my Taid (a lifelong socialist), and myself. That particular evening remains to this very day a very special memory for me, and I always remember my Taid's parting words before we said goodnight (well, nos da!) and I headed off home, "It's brilliant that you're reading incredibly important literature like this, but make sure you don't get depressed, as often this subject can make us feel like the situation is hopeless and helpless. It isn't."
He was a wise man, my Taid.

https://archive.org/details/isbn_9780374509255

7. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship and Travels (1899)

Last, but certainly not least, was an 1899 edition of the Romantic Bible of the eighteenth century, Goethe's Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship and Travels, translated by Thomas Carlyle. Once again, this was another book that I bought from that trip to Edinburgh Festival, and reading it was a transformative experience. This contained a world I wanted to luxuriate in, and the fact that the book itself, not just Carlyle's language, felt so archaic made me feel such a willing inhabitant and therefore considerable outsider to the culture of my own time. My main memory is reading it in the late summer of 2001, often with Debussy tinkling away in the background, and again feeling transformed and changed by the experience. Its loss is a very sad one to me, but at least I know, that at the opening of a laptop or a fire tablet, it is there in all its glory for me to peruse and enjoy once again. Grateful is not a big enough word.

https://archive.org/details/wilhelmmeistersa02goetuoft/page/n9/mode/2up?view=theater

Treasure your precious libraries, fellow readers.

Until next time, I remain...

Your Nocturnal Butterfly