tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post7646222361732837420..comments2024-02-05T09:17:53.322-08:00Comments on Adrian Barlow's blog: ‘The door wherein I went’: 1963 and meAdrian Barlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04526714501872493961noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post-68357354168072547872018-01-30T16:44:12.545-08:002018-01-30T16:44:12.545-08:00An interesting read, cousin Adrian! (Well, you may...An interesting read, cousin Adrian! (Well, you may be - who knows?) I came across your little essay when Googling my own little blog-essay about the summer of '63 - called, rather poetically, "The Summer of '63". Mine was a bit different from yours: I was ten years older than you, and my summer was spent backpacking around the first foreign countries I'd ever visited, besides England. I have fond memories, though no significant ones. It marked no turning point of my life; that came two years later. <br /><br />I well recall hearing the report of JFK's assassination, when I was back in civilisation working in the City of London. I was on my way home in the dark, watching the news on a pub TV. It shook me rigid. He was a hero to my generation, at the time. Gordon Barlowhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04525819944507167458noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post-45798782586044793102013-05-25T15:08:41.445-07:002013-05-25T15:08:41.445-07:00Well – shall we say that life is not always so won...Well – shall we say that life is not always so wonderful, and that excessive joy over the birth of a baby is misplaced: for who knows what the future may hold for it? (This does not represent a 'half–empty glass' approach to life; just a suggestion that our emotions are far too often a form of 'disorder', what Zeno of Citium described as, '...agitation[s] of the soul alien from right reason and contrary to nature.'<br /><br />How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting<br />For the miraculous birth, there always must be<br />Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating<br />On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot<br />That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course<br />Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot<br />Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse<br />Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.<br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07119180758113013415noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post-74873775118388537052013-05-17T05:00:36.544-07:002013-05-17T05:00:36.544-07:00Adrian - so the lines from Musee des Beaux Arts th...Adrian - so the lines from Musee des Beaux Arts that you cite. I, too, I think I get what Auden means, but I will say it's one of the sections of that first stanza that continues to tease the reader a little. <br />Are you willing to show your hand on this one?!Anilhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07297710417543760428noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post-25459255320492689952013-05-12T13:54:30.019-07:002013-05-12T13:54:30.019-07:00An excellent blog, Adrian — with a perfect last li...An excellent blog, Adrian — with a perfect last line! I certainly remember where I was when I heard that Kennedy had been assassinated: on a train at Robertsbridge. There had been a diversion by bus from Etchingham, and I found myself in a carriage with someone who (somehow) already knew. I remember feeling a distinct chill. We were already of course deep into the Cold War: who now was capable of dealing with Russia? (By the way, I also remember where I was when I heard that Bobby Kennedy had been assassinated.)<br /> <br />I was 19 in ’63, and well remember ‘That Was The Week That Was’. Nothing since has matched the excitement of that programme. It wasn’t just seeing the insufferably conceited Bernard Levin being punched in the face, or the arch–hypocrite Malcolm Muggeridge spouting his views — great fun though all that was! But the programme had real edge — and who could ever forget the wonderful Millicent Martin! No one then would have even dreamt that David Frost would eventually become an establishment figure... <br /><br />I didn’t read Fowles until the 70s. I finished reading ‘The Magus’ during an afternoon tea break at Dillons, Gower Street. I told my manager, and he said, ‘I expect you’d like to go home now.’! Does any book have a more depressing ending? <br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07119180758113013415noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5873009918100574338.post-37713661109529758002013-05-12T08:18:20.984-07:002013-05-12T08:18:20.984-07:00I can answer that Guardian question very precisely...I can answer that Guardian question very precisely: I was on my way to Cub Scouts held in one of the two Nissen huts on Cavendish Street and to get there we had to walk up The Croft which was an unmade road where the Arnold Wakes were held once a year. The area was derelict as some old houses were being pulled down to make way for a new doctors' surgery. I don't remember precisely who told us but we were shocked. I had just turned eleven and was in my final year of primary school, following remedial reading classes as my parents' constant moving from one area to another had meant that I was behind with learning to read. This was to prove a handicap as I failed my Eleven+ that school year and was sent to the local Secondary Modern School for Boys where, it is true, I was encouraged by the English teacher to write, but only really started reading towards my sixteenth birthday. The biggest challenge at that time was to get through Arthur Ransome's 'Swallows and Amazons', a story I loved, in spite of the hard words. I didn't discover the Beatles in 1963 but when I did a year or two later I became an ardent fan. In fact their music filled my teenage years and beyond my school-leaving year, 1969. That was to go into an apprenticeship in the printing industry. Another step into the world of books.Garry Headlandhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07741556616880181278noreply@blogger.com