To some the novels of historical romance written by William Harrison Ainsworth are of passing interest only; at most a literary curiosity – but for his devotees (if you can call people who have only read one of his books) are passionate in their defence of arguably his most famous work, “Old Saint Paul’s.”
This is an extraordinary book and if for nothing else (and there is much more besides) it should be remembered for the classic creations of the revolting figures of Chowles and Judith: two lowlife characters who live like vultures preying on the weak and vulnerable in the 1660s in the teeming metropolis of London.
It was this book which first gave me a dramatic introduction to the effects of the Black Death in Britain and I had read and enjoyed the vivid description of The Great Fire of London in the pages of “Old Saint Paul’s” long before I discovered the diaries of Pepys or the remarkable “Diary of the Plague Year” by Defoe and long before Philip Ziegler’s masterly description of the ‘real’ history of the disease in “The Black Death.”
If I thought that anyone would understand I would chalk a great cross on the door of our school and the inscription, “Lord have mercy!” as tomorrow our school should look as though it had been hit by the jumpy passengers of Rattus Rattus!
All years have been herded together and packed off on trips to the snow to culture to heritage. In theory I should have no lessons tomorrow and thus have an ideal opportunity to get my final tranche of marking completed. Marking, I might add, which I signally failed to get done yesterday and which I managed to avoid today by doing other things which seemed more interesting.
I have now produced a little booklet comprising a variety of obituary notices (in Spanish) of J D Salinger whose famous novel I have just started with the equivalent of my first year sixth. I still find it difficult to reconcile my understanding of the personality of the writer taking into account the half century of isolation and literary silence which characterized the last 50 years of his life.
Salinger always seemed to me from “Catcher” and the short stories to be the sort of person who would enjoy talking about his writing and letting you share the process of literary gestation. But no: not only silent, but almost vindictively possessive of his work, refusing all offers from various artists to film the novel. Even the BBC came under fire from his solicitors when it dramatized part of “Catcher” for a programme that they produced.
I well remember that period in college when I read everything that Salinger had written (that I could get my hands on) in one long orgy of reading one book after another. I can also remember having a conversation about his work with another student and browbeating my companion with the range, detail and vitality of my references to Salinger’s writing. I came close to being his number one fan! But it didn’t last.
It never did in the sort of degree that I experienced. A chronological approach to English Literature means that you are constantly being crushed by the Juggernaut of Literature with a capital L that you just have to read – and there is never enough time to keep up – usually being crushed beneath the weight of the hefty tomes of the nineteenth century!
Tomorrow I am determined to print out a mass of information on Salinger (in English) and produce another booklet that might encourage our more than indolent readers to try something for themselves. And enjoy it!
And there is the ever present shadow of unmarked examination scripts.
One colleague said, “Don’t worry, Stephen, you have all week to complete them.”
Words which always come back to haunt!
This is an extraordinary book and if for nothing else (and there is much more besides) it should be remembered for the classic creations of the revolting figures of Chowles and Judith: two lowlife characters who live like vultures preying on the weak and vulnerable in the 1660s in the teeming metropolis of London.
It was this book which first gave me a dramatic introduction to the effects of the Black Death in Britain and I had read and enjoyed the vivid description of The Great Fire of London in the pages of “Old Saint Paul’s” long before I discovered the diaries of Pepys or the remarkable “Diary of the Plague Year” by Defoe and long before Philip Ziegler’s masterly description of the ‘real’ history of the disease in “The Black Death.”
If I thought that anyone would understand I would chalk a great cross on the door of our school and the inscription, “Lord have mercy!” as tomorrow our school should look as though it had been hit by the jumpy passengers of Rattus Rattus!
All years have been herded together and packed off on trips to the snow to culture to heritage. In theory I should have no lessons tomorrow and thus have an ideal opportunity to get my final tranche of marking completed. Marking, I might add, which I signally failed to get done yesterday and which I managed to avoid today by doing other things which seemed more interesting.
I have now produced a little booklet comprising a variety of obituary notices (in Spanish) of J D Salinger whose famous novel I have just started with the equivalent of my first year sixth. I still find it difficult to reconcile my understanding of the personality of the writer taking into account the half century of isolation and literary silence which characterized the last 50 years of his life.
Salinger always seemed to me from “Catcher” and the short stories to be the sort of person who would enjoy talking about his writing and letting you share the process of literary gestation. But no: not only silent, but almost vindictively possessive of his work, refusing all offers from various artists to film the novel. Even the BBC came under fire from his solicitors when it dramatized part of “Catcher” for a programme that they produced.
I well remember that period in college when I read everything that Salinger had written (that I could get my hands on) in one long orgy of reading one book after another. I can also remember having a conversation about his work with another student and browbeating my companion with the range, detail and vitality of my references to Salinger’s writing. I came close to being his number one fan! But it didn’t last.
It never did in the sort of degree that I experienced. A chronological approach to English Literature means that you are constantly being crushed by the Juggernaut of Literature with a capital L that you just have to read – and there is never enough time to keep up – usually being crushed beneath the weight of the hefty tomes of the nineteenth century!
Tomorrow I am determined to print out a mass of information on Salinger (in English) and produce another booklet that might encourage our more than indolent readers to try something for themselves. And enjoy it!
And there is the ever present shadow of unmarked examination scripts.
One colleague said, “Don’t worry, Stephen, you have all week to complete them.”
Words which always come back to haunt!
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