I’m reading
Great Expectations again, having had
my interest reawakened in the wonderful Dickens novel as I tried (and failed—twice,
having started too late in the evening on consecutive Thursdays—) to watch a BBC
show that discussed some of Dickens’ rewrites, including a second, more bleak
ending. Dickens and Austen are two authors who I can read over and over again,
and it had been awhile since I pulled a Dickens paperback from the shelf.
And what a
while! I found a bit of unexpected ephemera—a monthly rail ticket for April 1991
for Kingsland station, on the Main line of New Jersey Transit. When I lived in
Lyndhurst I would take the train to work in NYC, then at 11 Penn Plaza, just across
from Madison Square Garden. I must say the ticket gave me pause—it is 23 years
old, dated the 13th of March and stamped with a fee of $95. The
ticket would only get me as far as Hoboken, New Jersey, and then I’d have to
pick up the PATH service to the office in midtown Manhattan. These days you can
get through to NYC, and the fare to Hoboken is actually cheaper now than it was
in 1991—just $89. That was certainly unexpected.
Perhaps
more predictable was how it started me thinking about that time of my life. I was
30, married, and living in a condominium, the proud “parent” of a fluffy black kitten
called Mirepoix (some of you may remember she migrated to the UK in her very late
teens). I quite liked working in the city; it made it easy to go to the Met for
opera, which I loved then and still do, or see friends in bands who had gigs at
places like Inkwell in Greenwich Village (which still exists, and Rina still
plays on), or have a beer after work at the local bar, O’Reilly’s. Oh my. A flood of memories held in a single,
small rectangle of a ticket that floated out when I opened the pages to begin
reacquainting myself with Pip and Magwitch.
In fact am
still working for the same parent company. I am still in touch with wonderful
colleagues from that era, though many have moved on to other places and other adventures
completely different than what they were doing in 1991. Some of us have changed
partners, or cities, or both, LOL. What haven’t changed are the ties that bind.
The original
manuscript of Great Expectations, by
the way, is held at the Wisbech and Fenland Museum near Peterborough. In fact,
you can visit with it any Saturday; given I am still wanting to see Catherine
of Aragon buried at Peterborough Cathedral, I sense a double-header in Tim’s
and my future!
What I do
recall of the BBC programme was the sheer size of the manuscript’s volume—like a
huge dictionary, and of course all handwritten with the usual blots of ink and
scratches. Does anyone still write in long hand these days? The woman in the
BBC programme donned gloves to carefully turn the page, much to the delight of
the host and those of us watching. What a remarkable thing to see in person; I
suppose those days are long behind us as we hunt and peck and click Save!
Speaking of
Dickens, Tim and I recently saw Simon Callow, a British national treasure, at
the Isle of Wight Literary Festival. Callow was there to talk about Dickens’ “other”
career in the theatre. Apparently Dickens was a compulsive performer who was
obsessed with the stage, so much so that Callow suggests the passion led him to
an early grave. I haven’t read Callow’s book, nor did we queue up for a signed
copy, and I’ll admit I was disappointed that Callow didn’t mention Great Expectations in his forty-minute
monologue to the crowd that gathered at St Mary’s Church, Cowes, to hear him. In
fact I had this odd moment of thinking, well, I’ve just started re-reading this
book, could I possibly be having a senior moment and it’s written by someone else? PS my fellow Americans, Callow had
a part in Four Weddings and A Funeral.
He played Gareth . . . yeah, I didn’t remember him either!
Speaking of
the IOW Literary Festival, well, there was an unexpected pleasure! This was the
festival’s third year, and the first that Tim and I were able to make it to the
IOW to join the fun. We chose four speakers—Callow, Monisha Rajesh, Tristram
Hunt, and David Barrie. (I know, who?) Monisha has written a novel about her
four-month journey travelling the India railways, and she was quite articulate
and engaging. Afterwards I asked her what her next adventure would be, and she
confided it would be around the world, and in a longer period than four months!
I think rail is a wonderful way to see any country, and someday I do hope to
see some of India the way Monisha did, but with a more reliable companion . . .
I know Tim would like to return to India, so watch this space. Tristram’s novel
focuses on ten cities that made the British Empire; Boston, and its Tea Party,
is one of them. Barrie’s novel, entitled Sextant,
provides the history behind the instrument that offshore navigators used in
very unchartered waters before the advent of GPS. The topic was probably nearest and dearest to
the audience of Cowes—a sailor’s town if nothing else—and there was a small
show of hands when Barrie asked how many had actually used a sextant, my handsome husband being one of them. I quite
enjoyed Barrie’s discussion of celestial navigation and liked his way of
presenting and speaking; Tristram was probably a bit more lecture-y, but no
less fascinating—I think it’s the politician in him!
How
thoroughly enjoyable the festival was, spending some time on the IOW and seeing
some familiar faces in the small and appreciative literati at the venues that held
most of the 100+ authors, poets, etc. I quite liked that there were sessions for
young adults as well as the rest of us. I will endeavour to keep my calendar
free for next year’s event, and pop into a few more talks.
Shifting to
a London weekend, what a wonderful November weekend Tim and I spent navigating
through London, sans sextant but with GPS in hand, first to see the ceramic
poppies gracing the moat at the Tower of London and onward to the LEGO exhibit
by the American artist Nathan Sawaya at the Old Truman Brewery on Brick Lane
followed by a browse through Spitafields Market. (Even a tried-and-true
Londoner like Tim occasionally needs to glance at a map!)
I wanted to see
the poppies for weeks, but we hadn't been in London, and come the 11th
the last would be laid to commemorate the lives lost in the first World War and
then would be removed. You can’t help but take in just a bit of breath as you
approach; in the sunlight the moat is a stunning shade of red against the
backdrop of the dramatic Tower of London. And of course there is the solemnity
that comes with the meaning of why volunteers are “planting” each of these 888,246
poppies. A pause, a silent prayer.
I am so glad
to have seen it, and frankly a bit surprised at how easy it was to make our way
to the gate and spend a minute or two to commit the moment to memory and then
leave to let the next person have a place at the gate.
The rain on
Sunday almost kept us home, but we braved it to travel by bus (front and centre
on the 38, of course) to the Royal Academy to see two very different
exhibitions—one of a relatively unknown Italian Renaissance artist called Giovanni
Moroni, and the other of a German artist, Anselm Kiefer.
Moroni had the
wonderful gift of painting very realistic portraits; I found most of his work
pleasing and detailed, particularly his depiction of the lustrous fabrics of
the women who sat for him and the aristocratic faces, gazing directly at you,
in astounding detail.
Kiefer, on
the other hand, is a bit more abstract. Clearly influenced by being brought up
after the war being born in March of 1945, his works are dark, foreboding, huge
floor-to-ceiling canvases that filled great walls in the galleries. While I
would not have chosen to see his work if it were not exhibited in the same
venue, I will admit there were a few that gave me pause, like his very un-Gogh sunflowers:
black, stark, brooding. I could not help but think how this young boy’s
experience in war-ravaged Germany may well have made him obsessed with
blackness and gloom.
What can I say? London,
always an unexpected pleasure.
I
may not find the time to post again until after what I expect will be a lovely
visit “home” soon. It is the first time I will be back in New Jersey with my
family for Thanksgiving since 2008. I am sure there will be an abundance of
laughter and a share of tears, reminiscing for hours on end; quiet talks and
boisterous meals; furtive smiles across the table that say how so very happy it is to be in this moment.
It’s all those things I am particularly longing for, and most grateful for with
my family, in what has always been an introspective time of the year for me.
Great expectations?
Loads. After all, it’s been a while
since Robyn and I have revisited the same memory and not needed to finish the
sentence before we both burst out laughing, knowing exactly what the other
meant to say. It never fails to confound others who can only shake their heads at
our one-mindedness.
You can only imagine how I am counting the
days.
