tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post5008168622563876036..comments2024-02-05T09:17:53.322-08:00Comments on Adrian Barlow's blog: Fifty Shades of English Lit.Adrian Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04526714501872493961noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post-28647306385403473512015-02-18T10:21:18.979-08:002015-02-18T10:21:18.979-08:00Many thanks, Tom. In many ways I find ‘Tess’ a mor...Many thanks, Tom. In many ways I find ‘Tess’ a more terrifying novel than ‘Jude The Obscure’, a horror novel in the strict sense, perhaps.Adrian Barlowhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04526714501872493961noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post-3431169550063830742015-02-15T10:18:22.536-08:002015-02-15T10:18:22.536-08:00Nice one, Adrian. It puts me in mind of this celeb...Nice one, Adrian. It puts me in mind of this celebrated review by Ed Zern in Field and Stream: <br /><br />‘Although written many years ago, Lady Chatterley’s Lover has just been reissued by the Grove Press, and this fictional account of the day-to-day life of an English gamekeeper is still of considerable interest to outdoor minded readers, as it contains many passages on pheasant raising, the apprehending of poachers, ways to control vermin, and other chores and duties of the professional gamekeeper. Unfortunately, one is obliged to wade through many pages of extraneous material in order to discover and savour these sidelights on the management of a Midlands shooting estate, and in this reviewer’s opinion this book cannot take the place of J.R. Miller’s Practical Gamekeeping’ (Field and Stream, November 1959, p. 142).<br /><br />Speaking of Lawrence, in Plath’s description of that first meeting, immediately before Hughes kisses her ‘bang smash on the mouth’, there’s this: ‘And then it came to the fact that I was all there, wasn't I, and I stamped and screamed yes, and I was stamping and he was stamping on the floor…’<br /><br />Hughes might seem in some ways like a Bronte character, but Plath’s style here seems to owe more to the modish influence of Lawrence, with maybe a dash of Hemingway. Surely by the time she came to write The Bell Jar and the Ariel poems she had shrugged off these masculine influences and found her own voice (Discuss!).<br />Joe Treasurehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11452665782271458318noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post-7082066795446606642015-02-15T10:02:10.918-08:002015-02-15T10:02:10.918-08:00There is such a lot to gain from reading this, Adr...There is such a lot to gain from reading this, Adrian.<br /><br />I was thinking of Hardy's Tess. First, the horse:<br /><br />'...The pointed shaft of the cart had entered the breast of the unhappy Prince like a sword, and from the wound his life's blood was spouting in a stream, and falling with a hiss into the road.<br /><br />In her despair Tess sprang forward and put her hand upon the hole, with the only result that she became splashed from face to skirt with the crimson drops. Then she stood helplessly looking on. Prince also stood firm and motionless as long as he could; till he suddenly sank down in a heap....'<br /><br />Then the metaphor:<br /><br />'...In reality, she was drifting into acquiescence. Every see-saw of her breath, every wave of her blood, every pulse singing in her ears, was a voice that joined with nature in revolt against her scrupulousness. Reckless, inconsiderate acceptance of him; to close with him at the altar, revealing nothing, and chancing discovery; to snatch ripe pleasure before the iron teeth of pain could have time to shut upon her: that was what love counselled; and in almost a terror of ecstasy Tess divined that, despite her many months of lonely self-chastisement, wrestlings, communings, schemes to lead a future of austere isolation, love's counsel would prevail....'<br /><br />Then the game-birds:<br /><br />'...Then she perceived what had been going on to disturb her. The plantation wherein she had taken shelter ran down at this spot into a peak, which ended it hitherward, outside the hedge being arable ground. Under the trees several pheasants lay about, their rich plumage dabbled with blood; some were dead, some feebly twitching a wing, some staring up at the sky, some pulsating quickly, some contorted, some stretched out—all of them writhing in agony, except the fortunate ones whose tortures had ended during the night by the inability of nature to bear more....'<br /><br />Then the death of Alec:<br /><br />'...As she did so her eyes glanced casually over the ceiling till they were arrested by a spot in the middle of its white surface which she had never noticed there before. It was about the size of a wafer when she first observed it, but it speedily grew as large as the palm of her hand, and then she could perceive that it was red. The oblong white ceiling, with this scarlet blot in the midst, had the appearance of a gigantic ace of hearts.<br /><br />Mrs Brooks had strange qualms of misgiving. She got upon the table, and touched the spot in the ceiling with her fingers. It was damp, and she fancied that it was a blood stain....'<br /><br />There's more, of course. Some of it is almost like a horrible distorted premonition of the story of Plath and Hughes. <br /><br />Thank you, as always. <br />tomdhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03766237341387024779noreply@blogger.com