Tag Archives: nemonymous night

Many A Lobe

Four days to go – until the ‘defective’ election.
My photos in Clacton this morning – to add to this blog’s many Clacton photos over the years.

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The latter is one graffiti left in situ following Tendring Council’s erasure of an original Banksy satirising UKIP. If they had preserved the wall itself that would have been £400,000 to the local economy! This couple on the bench reminds me of the couple Tho and Hataz in ‘Nemonymous Night’ where their sui-subsumation at Earth’s Core was IS as BEING beyond WAS with the novel’s many explicit lobes: a lobe’s central, sadly predictive, doom – not the red herring-catcher H5N1, after all. A surprise even to me.

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Some Favourite Recent Skylines

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The ultimate skyline by Heather Horsley – this novel ‘Nemonymous Night’ by myself was published exactly three years ago by Chomu Press. I have just picked it up to read it and pretending that I have never read it before! And it feels as if I haven’t! It’s coming up completely fresh and dare I say I am enjoying it? It’s been on a slow fuse since June 2011. At least I hope it’s a slow fuse and not a dead or dying one like that to the firework display for the launch of the Jules Verne Drill told about in the novel itself! (The novel’s few reviews here.)

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Blue Without Event

Today’s photo taken this morning:
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NEWS: Substantial article on Chômu Press: http://www.schlockmagazine.net/2014/04/15/schlock-talks-chomu-press/
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Novel Doodlings

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A doodling from a novel I’m enjoying at the moment, Lewis holding a chicken leg, the others killing a chicken:

“…I encounter Lewis. He has a shaved head, which he may think disguises his male-pattern baldness,… […] His moon-like face is given a certain definition by strategically trimmed facial hair. […] …while their heads became distended, like rugby balls hovering above their shoulders.”
— from FIRST NOVEL by Nicholas Royle (Jonathan Cape 2013, pp 20-28)

Please see comments below for anything more about this.

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Growing Sculpture

Some sort of growing tree-like ‘sculpture’, encountered on my walk this morning in Holland-on-Sea:

The Hedge in ‘Nemonymous Night’?

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Hawling in John Cowper Powys

A quoted passage discovered today in ‘The Glastonbury Romance’ (1933) by John Cowper Powys which might show an early form of hawling: 

“For the last month the tin had been pouring forth with such a steady flow that Philip’s spirits had mounted up to a pitch of excitement that was like a kind of diurnal drunkenness. He dreamed of tin every night. The metal in all its stages began to obsess him. He collected specimens of it, of every degree of weight, integrity, purity. He carried bits of it about with him in his pocket. All manner of quaint fancies — not so much imaginative ones as purely childish ones — connected with tin, kept entering and leaving his mind, and he began to feel as if a portion of his innermost being were the actual magnet that drew this long-neglected element out of abysses of prehistoric darkness into the light of day.
Philip got into the habit of walking every day up the steep overgrown hillside above Wookey and posting himself in the heart of a small grove of Scotch firs from which he could observe, without anyone detecting his presence, the lively transactions at the mouth of the big orifice in the earth, where the trees had been cut away and where the cranes and pulleys stood out in such startling relief against the ancient sepia-coloured clumps of hazel and sycamore, still growing around them upon the leafy slopes. Here he would devour the spectacle of all this activity he had set in motion, until he longed to share the physical exertions of every one of his labourers, diggers, machinists, truckmen, carters, stokers, miners, and haulers.”

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A Cage For The Nightingale – Phyllis Paul

A CAGE FOR THE NIGHTINGALE
By Phyllis Paul
A novel first published 1957
The Sundial Press (2012) with introduction by Glen Cavaliero
 Beautiful hardback book that I recently purchased from the publisher.

phyllis paul, a cage for the nightingale, glen cavaliero, sundial press

Below is a real-time review that may take me days, weeks, months or years to complete… (my previous such reviews linked from HERE)

One, Two
“Owl-voices, cries in the night –“
I have not read Phyllis Paul’s work before but when I first saw this novel advertised I simply knew that it would be just up my street, being, as I am, a long-term fan of Elizabeth Bowen (who died in the same year as PP, that link being to my own site I created in EB’s honour) and currently re-reading ‘The Glastonbury Romance’ by John Cowper Powys, both of which authors have been mentioned in connection with this Sundial Press book. And I can tell, this early in the book, that I am not mistaken. I am rather excited at the prospect of reading the rest of it, although I may savour it slowly.  A novel of such deeply textured, yet limpid, prose deserves savouring. The first chapter summons up, by inference of a tentative fire warming a room, a young (children or young adults?) brother and sister preparing to visit a house in the country with resonances of past ominous connections with them and a man they hardly know. I will not repeat the plot in this review, but hopefully just give impressions as I go through the book. So far, Frances Oliver‘s work comes to mind and an echo of ‘Twin Peaks’ when the owl-voices are mentioned in the second chapter that evokes a woman in her early twenties about to be a governess  of an obliquely unwell girl – as this woman writes to a friend about living in the same country house, I presume, that the brother and sister earlier discussed by fitful firelight… [The device of that fire reminds me (if I may be self-indulgent for a moment) of my own use of a carpet at the beginning of ‘Nemonymous Night‘ as characters gradually emerge walking upon it, a feeling of one’s way to establish identities…] (1 Oct 12 – 7.45 pm bst]

Three, Four
“With these words in my ears, I descended on a stair-carpet of such exaggerated pile that there was no sound to distract me from their echoes;”
We home in further upon identities via objective correlatives like that carpet and a rose, even via a person like the house’s neighbour, as we learn of the interview  hurdles Rachel the companion (not governess, perhaps) of the mysterious girl (age?) needs to jump (selfward and external) to take up her position so as to care for that girl who needs a place of mental Doctoring within, it seems, against a sensible grain, the house where it all happened, where what happened? “…yet a doorway is always a centre of interest.” Each turn of the paradoxically gentle teasing of the narrative screw allows us to get closer to the Doctoring Constantine responsible for those mental needs and why we are all travelling, we band of readers, toward that very house along with others travelling there and those already close by.  All in a skilful ‘al dente’ prose and dialogue style of ‘genius loci’ via, strangely, character and via, of course, place….“…the latent monstrosity brought out by the owl-light.” (2 Oct 12 – 10.30 am bst)

Five, Six
“He found himself standing before the window, with the curtain lifted, looking straight towards the big house. He could see a good deal of it, in spite of the leaves.”
An arguable forerunner of the HOUSE of Leaves (with a CS Lewisian  “wardrobe”?), with the various narrative perspectives (even Satan the cat’s ‘immanent’ one) leading me to feel that this book is exceeding my already high expectations of it. I am both this book’s ‘disassociated’ neighbour and its tenant (a dualistic emblem for Rachel’s ‘out and in’ viewpoint as she tries to fathom her charge Victoria and what happened once). It is a dream that is decidedly not “safe as sleep” . And I ask:  “What am I doing in this queer show?”  What are you? For me, I’d risk even my own sanity to read this fine prose. Its scowls and frowns, its knowing resonances. “The carpets are particularly rich and thick — everything is thick-piled, as you might say.”  (2 Oct 12 – 7.00 pm bst)

Seven, Eight, Nine
“…the divine afflatus descended on an instrument still too crude for it,…”
…in a similar way to this book upon the reader — or vice versa, as I, for one, multi-infer much from the various narrator pecking-orders underpinning this section of LP Hartleyesque  ‘go-betweens’ (literal and figurative), ‘blind agents’, ‘love letters’ and packages together with some concupiscent innuendo between author and me about pre- or post-adolescent girls. This resides within an almost ‘whodunit’ ambiance depicting a finishing-school or health clinic run by a dubiously foreign near-‘quack’, a scenario reminiscent (in a synergistic rather than derivative way) of ‘The Ghosts of Summer’ and other works by an author I mentioned earlier in this review.  All threaded through (or by) some gorgeous Autumnal prose that dreamily structures the inferred chronology. (3 Oct 12 – 2.15 pm bst)

Ten, Eleven
“As if we were a little isolated group of contagious cases, who did not know we were ill –“
We begin to sense the motivations of the house’s enclosed community, and of those outsiders like we readers and the neighbour Henry … but Victoria is both inside and outside herself, Rachel the ‘companion’, too. Meanwhile, some of the ciphers in the community grow characters of their own. But who or what the “quarry”,  victim or culprit? … Constantine, mind-doctor or mind-doctored?  Very intriguing,  slowly meted-out plot: also resonating with my fifty years of interest in Wimsatt’s  ‘Intentional Fallacy’ literary theory — on which subject I confirm that, as is common with all my real-time reviews, I shall not be reading the book’s introduction till after I have read and reviewed the complete fiction itself. (3 Oct 12 – 7.55 pm bst)

THIS REAL-TIME REVIEW IS NOW CONTINUED HERE

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