tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post6584030151268413296..comments2024-02-05T09:17:53.322-08:00Comments on Adrian Barlow's blog: To NorfolkAdrian Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04526714501872493961noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post-75128259825057855342012-01-17T14:40:36.680-08:002012-01-17T14:40:36.680-08:00On Holkham beach
I can connect
Nothing with noth...On Holkham beach <br />I can connect <br />Nothing with nothing.<br /><br />“I’d like to write.” <br /><br />You should. Your style is changing. Like the climate. Or maturing. Still the literary criticism and insight but there’s something else. “We approach the beach through pine woods, and then skirt some prodigious beds of samphire grass.” My friends own an old farmhouse near Coutance in Lower Normandy where you can walk in a nature reserve over ‘prodigious beds of samphire grass’ and crunch ‘on fragments of razor shell’ and think yourself in Norfolk, once the tide is out. And see glimpses of Jersey. The edge of Eden. The true poet is Edgar, convincing his father, “How fearful / And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!” when in fact they are standing on safe ground. The name of Matilda’s ‘gentleman’, ‘Pip’, is written in the sand in Lloyd Jones’ Mister Pip, a novel in which such a notion shifts at the turn of each page, only to find that, instead of being “built on sand”, it is built on notions of dignity and sacrifice. <br /><br />To Carthage then I cameGarry Headlandhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07741556616880181278noreply@blogger.com