Cinematic Writing VII

Mantled in grey, the dusk steals slowly in,

Crossing the dead, dull fields with footsteps cold.

The rain drips drearily; night's fingers spin

A web of drifting mist o'er wood and wold,

As quiet as death. The sky is silent too,

Hard as granite and as fixed as fate.

The pale pond stands; ringed round with rushes few

But for the coming of the winter night

Of deep December; blowing o'er the graves

Of faded summers, swift the wind in flight

Ripples its silent face with lapping waves.

The rain falls still: bowing, the woods bemoan;

Dark night creeps in, and leaves the world alone.

- Philip Larkin, Winter Nocturne

Cinematic Writing VI

"Do you still play as beautifully as you used to?"

"I still enjoy it."

"Please play, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth arose immediately. Her readiness to perform when asked had always been one of her amiabilities; she never hung back, apologized. Now as she approached the piano there was the added readiness of relief.

She began with a Bach prelude and fugue. The prelude was as gaily iridescent as a prism in a morning room. The first voice of the fugue, an announcement pure and solitary, was repeated intermingling with a second voice, and again repeated within an elaborated frame, the multiple music, horizontal and serene, flowed with unhurried majesty. The principal melody was woven with two other voices, embellished with countless ingenuities -- now dominant, again submerged, it had the sublimity of a single thing that does not fear surrender to the whole. Toward the end, the density of the material gathered for the last enriched insistence on the dominant first motif and with a chorded final statement the fugue ended. Ferris rested his head on the chair back and closed his eyes. In the following silence a clear, high voice came from the room down the hall.

"Daddy, how could Mama and Mr. Ferris--" A door was closed.

The piano began again -- what was this music? Unplaced, familiar, the limpid melody had lain a long while dormant in his heart. Now it spoke to him of another time, another place -- it was the music Elizabeth used to play. The delicate air summoned a wilderness of memory. Ferris was lost in the riot of past longings, conflicts, ambivalent desires. Strange that the music, catalyst for this tumultuous anarchy, was so serene and clear. The singing melody was broken off by the appearance of the maid.

"Miz Bailey, dinner is out on the table now."

Even after Ferris was seated at the table between his host and hostess, the unfinished music still overcast his mood. He was a little drunk.

- Carson McCullers, excerpt from The Sojourner

Merry

Festive Burlington Arcade // Serpentine Gallery Pavilion a few months back, blooming with late flowers // Riddle & Finns champagne & oyster bar in Brighton // Reading in Rose Bakery with ginger & elderflower honey tea // Somerset House

*

...Christmas and happy new year, dear readers!

I shall be back very soon after the month-long and much needed hiatus.

x

Girl of my Dreams XI

Alice Sara Ott, a 23-year-old German-Japanese pianist.

She plays the Appassionata better than anyone else.

This november, I wish to...

*Martin Pisotti

1. Wear glittery shoes indoors. Go to lots of parties, have mulled wine (and champagne)

*Stuart McKenna

2. Get on a Caledonian sleeper and wander in the Scottish highlands, wearing my softest cashmere scarf from Island of Islay, embracing the crisp winter wind

*Neëst*

3. Cuddle a cat to sleep

*Inès ☆

4. Dream of Monet's Giverny

p.s. None of the above is going to be realised any time soon, but at least I am going to Cambridge this weekend for formal dinner at Trinity College and a long stroll along River Cam, hopefully in the glorious autumnal light, camera in hand...

x

Cinematic Writing V

'. . . The car slowed down. It had to take its place in the long line of cars that moved at a foot’s pace, now stopping dead, now jerking on, down the narrow street, blocked by market carts, that led to the Opera House. Men and women in full evening dress were walking along the pavement. They looked uncomfortable and self-conscious as they dodged between costers’ barrows, with their high piled hair and their evening cloaks; with their button-holes and their white waistcoats, in the glare of the afternoon sun. The ladies tripped uncomfortably on their high-heeled shoes; now and then they put their hands to their heads. The gentlemen kept close beside them as though protecting them. It’s absurd, Kitty thought; it’s ridiculous to come out in full evening dress at this time of day. She leant back in her corner. Covent Garden porters, dingy little clerks in their ordinary working clothes, coarse-looking women in aprons stared in at her. The air smelt strongly of oranges and bananas. But the car was coming to a standstill. It drew up under the archway; she pushed through the glass doors and went in.

She felt at once a sense of relief. Now that the daylight was extinguished and the air glowed yellow and crimson, she no longer felt absurd. On the contrary, she felt appropriate. The ladies and gentlemen who were mounting the stairs were dressed exactly as she was. The smell of oranges and bananas had been replaced by another smell — a subtle mixture of clothes and gloves and flowers that affected her pleasantly. The carpet was thick beneath her feet.'

- Virginia Woolf, excerpt from The Years

L'amour

'It's not the pale moon that excites me/ That thrills and delights me, oh no/Yes, it's just the nearness of you'

- Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, The Nearness of You

My heart is still leaping with joy for my friend's wedding in Hamburg last weekend, and also newly laden with sorrow as my boyfriend left London for his gap half-year in the Far East - but I know under the veil of tears and longing, love will see us through, love will take us home. Like they always say, 'Tis absense, however, that makes the heart grow fonder.

x