Workers of all lands Unite!

Karl Marx

Earlier this year I took a trip to Romania and ventured into Transylvania stalking a myth created by Bram Stoker.  What I encountered on that not so perilous journey was an eye opening experience that made me think that perhaps I’m much better off than I ever thought I was. Growing up down under, I heard over and over again that Australia is the lucky country. Even coming from a poor background, at least we always had something and if anyone turned up at meal times, there was always room at the table. So as I was saying, in the town of Brasov in Transylvania, lives a humble man by the name of Peter.  He is a little older than me, and I didn’t ask his surname. I spent a few hours listening to him explain what it was like living in Romania and growing up in a Communist State. He told me how difficult it was having nothing and not having the freedom of choice that I had growing up. Their hopes were kept alive by the music of bands like the Beatles and Led Zeppelin and he read books that he could get a hold of and was a big fan of George Orwell. Of course, when it came down to brass tacks and where the blame of such an experience lies, we can kind of guess.

Karl Heinrich Marx was born in 1818 in Trier, Western Germany. Educated to university level he received a doctorate in philosophy in 1841.  In 1943 he travelled with his wife Jenny to Paris where Marx became a revolutionary communist and became friends with Friedrich Engels. After being forced from France, they spent two years in Belgium where they co-authored The Communist Manifesto which has since been recognised as one of the world’s most influential political publications.

Marx brought his family to London in 1849 and was largely supported financially by Engels. It was in London that Marx wrote Das Capital which was meant to reveal the laws of Capitalism. He turned against the Bourgeois and explained the structural contradictions of the social classes.

Dean Street Soho, where Marx lived with his family

When you think about the effects of Communism where everybody shares and the food is rationed fairly – supposedly, and industrial armies are formed for agricultural purposes, you could forgive governments for introducing the concept as such. But, it has more down sides than up and countries such as Romania and Poland have suffered the consequences, even more so after the end in the 80’s, because, at least when you have a ration book you receive some sort of morsel for your family.  It’s the aftermath of Communism - where all of a sudden you have money, which is a pittance and you have to nourish and provide for your family, which sees the people engaged in that constant uphill battle.

Our friend Peter in Brasov wasn’t starving, but he was struggling to make ends meet.  I on the other hand, thought that I was hard done by when I was growing up, but I had at least one pair of jeans and if I couldn’t afford them, I knew that if I saved my money, I could buy some eventually. It’s the choices that Communism took away from these people that hurt more than anything.  They had no rights and only the rich and famous could travel because the government didn’t want the masses to see what it was like over the border. God forbid that someone might start some sort of resistance movement.

Karl Marx had an idea.  He didn’t like capitalism and he thought that his idea might make the world a better place.  In theory, it might have looked good, but it didn’t work.  Where ever you have a government, there’s always capitalism, but not among the working class. They might call it a Communist State, but you can bet your last ration coupon that the guy at the top isn’t lining up for days to grab what he can off the shop shelf. If Marx had realised this, would he still have contributed he work to the world? Of course, he had a voice and he chose to use it.

The Marx tomb at Highgate

In Highgate Cemetery, there is a monument to this radical thinker. It’s not a humble monument, in fact, it sticks out like dogs balls and if you weren’t looking for his grave, you’d find it anyway. It was built in 1954, funded by the Communist Party of Great Britain. It’s a far cry from the not so noticeable marker that was put there in 1895 when just over a handful of mourners attended his funeral. Just like that enormous tomb, his ideas left a sizeable footprint on the world and in 1980 almost one third of the world lived in Communist States. I find it strange that so many could take the work of one man and use his ideas to govern a country. But all ideas have to come from somewhere and this one stemmed Once upon a time in the mind of a man did not want to just understand the world, but change it.

Unrespited, Unpitied, Unrepriev’d

John Milton

I’ve often wondered when I’ve been researching the past lives of the writers that I’m interested in whether or not they were referred to in the proper way.  As I write this, I’m wondering if anyone ever called John Milton, Milts.  Please don’t ask me why I ponder the strange; it just popped into my head.

The blue plaque in Bread St London

Born in 1608 in Bread Street London, John Milton was the son of John Milton and Sarah Jeffrey. Being the son of a successful composer, he was fortunate enough to have his own private tutor after which he studied Latin and Greek at St Paul’s School. Milton attended Christs College Cambridge, graduated in1929 and prepared to become an Anglican priest remaining at Cambridge to achieve his Masters of Arts degree. If you ever have the chance to visit the British Library, there is a commonplace book that charters his development on display.

He dabbled in writing, but as usual for those who were well to do in those times, he also set of on a journey through Europe. His views had already developed through extensive reading and his travel contributed. On religion, he had his own views and didn’t necessarily fit any religious group of the time. Maybe that’s why he gave up on the idea of becoming a priest.

Statue of Milton in St Giles without Gripplegate

Upon his return from the continent, Milton settled in London and began schooling his nephews and later children of the better families. He was also supported by his father’s investments, but still chose to develop the knowledge of others.

In 1642, he visited the Manor House at Forest Hill in Oxfordshire where he courted the daughter of the family. Milton returned to London with his wife Mary and they had four children together. Throughout his life, he was married three times, and although he supported the idea of divorce, his marriages ended in death.

 As the civil war began to brew, Milton started writing political and religious pamphlets. He had radical views on politics too, but these were silenced when he was arrested after the restoration of Charles II. Fined and released, he left the city and lived for the rest of his life in the country.

I haven’t read any of his political or religious pamphlets; I’m more interested in the epic Paradise lost, which was dictated to his daughter as the poet had lost his sight by then. Based on the fall of Adam and Eve, this biblical tale starts off with Satan being banished to hell and Satan being a rebel, decides that he will put his strength into evil. So off he goes to earth and finds Adam and Eve and you know the rest. They eat the forbidden fruit and they’re kicked out of the Garden of Eden – hence, their paradise is lost. They did however have their freedom as prison wasn’t invented then, so they kind of went unpunished for their sins, unless of course, you think about that monthly curse that we women all put up with for a large stretch of our lives. So yeah, if the story of Adam and Eve is true, then thanks God.

Bust and plaque memorial

After some examination of pictures and statues that I’ve had the good fortune to stumble across, I’ve decided that Milton was a miserable looking git. He kind of reminds me of one of those sad looking dogs with the droopy faces. But casting his looks aside, his writing puts him among the ranks of Shakespeare and other English poets that have been mentioned in past blogs. Blake even wrote a poem about Milton and I like it when poets write poems about other poets, makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Throughout his life, Milton stayed strong with his beliefs whatever the consequence, and although I’m not really a fan of religious poetry, I must say that Once up a time in London, a man wrote with the conviction and the courage never to submit or yield until of course, you’ve been fined.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Lewis Carroll

There’s nothing better than getting home from the day’s grind and relaxing with a little literary nonsense. The stuff that is so far-fetched and ridiculous that you know it could never happen, is just the thing after a day of intense thinking and seriousness. Not only does it make you laugh, it kind of helps you to forget the problems of the day.

When I was a lot younger, I loved the books that took me away from reality and into some sort of fantasy world where nothing seemed likely, but I believed it was real because I believed anything was possible.  Now I’m a lot more sensible, I still like to think that those fantasy worlds exist, but I don’t usually tell people.

The Alice Garden - Guildford castle

When Charles Lutwidge Dodson was born in 1832, I’ll bet my last penny that nobody could have foreseen the imaginary world that he would create. In that small Parsonage in Daresbury, his religious family would never have known that this baby was going to create literary nonsense that would delight for centuries.

Christ Church where Dodson attended and Brendan & I
escaped from the tour.

Dodson was schooled at Richmond, Rugby and finally Oxford. (I recently visited Oxford with my son Brendan and we went on the worst (free but you can pay at the end if you liked it) tour of the place possible.  It was so bad that we buggered off before the end so that we wouldn’t feel lousy for not paying.) But let’s get back to our subject. Dodson enjoyed photography and there are numerous references to pictures of children but this is about the books he wrote, not his pictures, and those particular books supposedly began with his meeting the Liddell family in Oxford. There is still some speculation about his heroin Alice and whether or not she was based on Alice Liddell, but either way, the books are amazing.



Down the rabbit hole in Guildford

It all starts when Alice sees a rabbit with a pocket watch hurrying past and follows it down a rabbit hole. What follows after that is an amazing adventure in which Alice grows, shrinks and plays a bizarre game of croquet with the Queen of hearts. She meets creatures such as The Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat and ends with Alice waking up from a dream. 

Alice's Shop Oxford - rumour has it she used to buy sweets
here with her sisters.

When Dodson wrote the book he wrote under the name of Lewis Carroll. The transition from one name to another goes as follows.  Charles Lutwidge translated to Latin is Carolus Ludovicus which in English is Carroll Lewis.  He then reversed the name to come up with the pseudonym Lewis Carroll.  This kind of leads me into the sequel to the first book which of course is, Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There. In the looking glass world it’s the opposite of what’s happening in the real world.  The time of year is winter where it’s snowing outside, but when Alice climbs through the looking glass, it’s a sunny day. This is where we’re introduced to Tweedledum and Tweedledee, The Walrus and The Carpenter and who could forget The Jabberwocky?



The Walrus & The Carpenter - London

Dodson was a genius.  He experimented with words as all writers do and came up with the most incredible names and characters which in my opinion, nobody could ever equal.  There is a lot more to this man than his writing, but that kind of makes him boring to me.  I prefer to imagine him as Lewis Carroll rowing a boat while he tells his story to the Liddell girls.

"The Chestnuts" where he passed away in Guildford

A few weeks before his 66^th birthday, Charles Dodson passed away at his sister’s home “The Chestnuts” in Guildford.  He is now buried at The Mount Cemetery also in Guildford and let me tell you right now, that when the say The Mount, they don’t mean the hill.  It’s quite a climb to the cemetery, but the reward was substantial and the hard work allows me to show you a photo of his grave. 

The grave of Charles Lutwidge Dodson - AKA Lewis Carroll
The Mount Cemetery Guildford

I said earlier that I like the kind of stories that take me into some kind of fantasy land, but I suppose that in some way shape or form, they all do.  None however will ever replace the Alice books as I’ve read them over and over again and I will continue to do so until my eyes fall bleeding from my head. This is the kind of story that I will read to my grandson and hopefully he will enjoy it as much as the Liddell girls did when Once upon a time supposedly in a row boat, Lewis Carroll emerged from the cocoon of Charles Dodson and helped us to believe as many as *six impossible things before breakfast.

*Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

http://www.chch.ox.ac.uk/
http://www.nicholsonspubs.co.uk/thewalrusandthecarpentermonumentlondon/
http://www.visitsurrey.com/things-to-do/guildford-castle-p44413
http://www.aliceinwonderlandshop.co.uk/

“Life is sometimes sad and often dull, but there are currants in the cake, and here is one of them.”

Nancy Mitford

Okay, so it’s been a few weeks and there are reasons for it, but none substantial enough to babble on about. So let’s skip the excuses and move on.  When I first saw the name Nancy Mitford on a plaque in London, it kick started my own private investigation into her family’s background.

The plaque on the bookshop where she worked in Curzon Street.

Nancy was born in 1904 and is the eldest of the infamous Mitford sisters.  This family have intimate ties with nobility, communism and the Nazi Party and although I find them all intriguing, I’m going to try my hardest to concentrate on the Nancy herself.

Mitford was born in Belgravia London, but was brought up at Asthall Manor in Oxfordshire. Educated at home, she spent a lot of time with her sisters and relied on them for conversation. This woman from a young age; never took anything seriously and her light heartedness must have been a breath of fresh air compared with the political views of some of her sisters.

In 1929, Mitford began writing for a magazine and her first novel – Highland Fling, was published in 1931. She continued to write and in 1946, Nancy Mitford had a book by the name of The Pursuit of Love published.  The novel was so popular that it gave her financial independence for the first time in her life.

My second hand copy of The Pursuit of Love

Mitford’s novels were highly autobiographical and if you have the opportunity to read letters and books written by other family members, you can tie reality to fiction with certain words that only they used.

The Pursuit of Love is the first of a trilogy and the central character Linda, who is slightly highly strung, is always looking for love. Sadly, I’m not going to tell you the outcome and on a sadder note, I have not read the sequels to this story, but I do have time on my side. If you haven’t had the change to indulge, please do so because although there is tragedy in the book, it’s quite funny.

Nancy Mitford

Throughout her life, Mitford was a member of The Bright Young Things and formed solid relationships with other members.  There was of course the falling in love with at least three men that I know of and her marriage to Peter Rodd which ended in 1958. Nancy hid her feelings behind jokes and laughter and was always the centre of attention in any type of gathering.

Nancy Mitford lost her battle with Hodgkin’s disease in 1973 and her ashes are buried at St Mary’s in Swinbrook along with other family members.  I haven’t had the chance to visit her grave, but my hunt of the infamous Mitfords doesn’t end here. There are other writers in the family and just as Linda Radlett pursued love Once upon a time in England, the pursuit of my love of literature will continue as long as I do.

The happiest place in the world

Astrid Lindgren

Think of the happiest time in your life and try to remember what you were doing at that time or where you were. Now imagine that you have thirty or forty people with you and they all feel the same as you. You’re all singing and dancing and having a great time and there’s a show going on that’s entertaining and funny – even if you don’t understand the language.  If this is happening in your imagination, you might just be at Junibacken in Stockholm. A recent trip to this haven of European children’s fiction is the topic of this week’s blog, along with the beloved children’s writer Astrid Lindgren.

Statue of Lindgren outside of Junibacken

In 1907 on the 14^th of November, in Vimmerby Sweden, the life of Astrid Anna Emilia Ericsson began.  She grew up in nearby Nas and many of her books are based on childhood memories and her own family. When Astrid finished school, she started working for the local newspaper.  She worked as a secretary and a journalist before becoming a full time author. Along the way she married her boss and had two children as well (just thought I’d add that because her name changed and you might have wondered how or why??)

In 1944, Lindgren won second prize in a competition for a story she had written, a year later she won first prize in the same competition with her book Pippi Langstrump, or as I know it, Pippi Longstocking.  This story has been translated into 60 languages making her the 18^th most translated author on the planet.

The display of her work for sale in the Junibacken book shop

Throughout her career, Astrid Lindgren won many awards for writing including the prestigious Hans Christian Andersen award in 1958, but the awards don’t just include her storytelling achievements. Astrid received the Right to Livelihood award in 1997 as she was all for children’s and animal rights and opposed corporal punishment. Her work was so renowned, that she even had a minor planet named after her which was discovered in 1978.

When I visited Stockholm and Junibacken, I did have intentions of perhaps taking a trip to Vimmerby to visit Astrid’s Wellspring and the museum, but Stockholm being Stockholm, I kind of ran out of time.  Please also note that on this particular blogspedition I was accompanied by my eldest son Brendan – my gift to him for a few years of neglect on my part.  So the holiday wasn’t just for me. Brendan enjoyed Junibacken and a quick look at Villa Villekulla which included singing and dancing and even though the performance was in Swedish, it was a lot of fun to watch and well worth the effort of travelling there.

The inside of Pippi Longstocking's house

Astrid Lindgren left us on the 28^th of January 2002, which makes her ninety four if my calculations are correct. I’ve always been a firm believer that the happier you are, the longer you live and if laughter is the best medicine, then bring on the clowns. My trip to Junibacken was a joy and after learning about this amazing woman and I can now tell you that Once upon a time in Stockholm, I set out on an adventure to the home of the strongest girl in the world and discovered the happiest place imaginable.

A little trust that when we die – We reap our sowing - And so goodbye.

George du Maurier

Imagine spending all of your time with Derren Brown. It’s kind of intriguing, but a little daunting. Would you be wondering if you were carrying on of your own free will or under some strange hypnotic suggestion? Maybe you wouldn’t realise you were being manipulated and go about your business in the same carefree manner as always. Why am I asking you this? Well, I recently read a book called Trilby and it kind of made me think a lot about the power of hypnosis. If the hypnotist is truly a hypnotist then he would be like a puppeteer controlling your every move.  I don’t really fancy that but there’s more than one way to control somebody.

In this gothic novel, Trilby O’Ferrall is a foot model.  She has very exquisite feet that are, sculpted and painted.  Unfortunately the poor girl can’t sing a note until Svengali the evil hypnotist gets a hold of her and manipulates her into becoming a great opera singer with the voice of a nightingale. Unfortunately, when her master dies, she’s so exhausted that she also kicks off and sadly never knows of her fame.

Plaque, 91 Great Russell Street, London

The writer responsible for this masterpiece is George du Maurier.  You might remember I blogged about his granddaughter Daphne earlier this year. Anyway, George was born in Paris in 1934. Due to his lineage, George learnt French and English at the same time and in the book Trilby, there is a little French so if you can’t understand what you’re reading, you might want to have Google translate open when you pick up the book. George never graduated due to a failed Latin paper so the family uprooted and headed for London so that he could continue his chemistry studies. He wasn’t really one for chemistry though so after his father died, once again the whole family accompanied George as he relocated back to Paris to continue his studies. This time his focus was art and after studying in Europe, du Maurier returned to London and started to make a name for himself as an illustrator. He continued this work, but also produced three novels. 

The gothic novel, Trilby

The novel Trilby caused a type of mania with the public and there were all sorts of products relating to the leading lady on the market.  These ranged from pins to sausages and it’s also interesting to learn that this is where the Trilby hat got its name. I guess this popularity was probably like that of The Beatles for the book geek.

When George du Maurier passed away he was only sixty two and he died of heart failure just like his evil hypnotist Svengali. When I took the picture of the blue plaque in Great Russell Street, I imagined him strolling along tipping his Trilby to all who passed by, but when I discovered his grave in Hampstead, it was kind of a little more sombre for me.  Sixty two is no age and I know that there would have been more novels because of his incredible talent. 

The resting place of George du Maurier, St John-at-Hampstead

So back to my question at the beginning of the blog, like I mentioned, there’s more than one way to control someone and I don’t need to spend time with a hypnotist to fall into a trance, I just open a book. The world could do a somersault and monkeys could fly past my window and I probably wouldn’t notice. It just goes to show that when you’re truly engrossed in something, the hypnotic power of the engagement envelops you and life kind of passes you by just like it did Once upon a time in this gothic novel and believe me, we haven’t seen the last of that hypnotic power.

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

Lord Byron

In 1788 London, a child was born to Captain John Byron and Catherine Gordon, the captain’s second wife.  This child would grow up to be not just a poet, but a key writer in the Romantic Movement which was around 1800-1850.

Plaque depicting where Byron was born - now John Lewis
department store Bond Street London.

The 6^th Baron Byron was born in London but spent his childhood in Aberdeen. At the age of ten he inherited his great-uncle’s title and the family home Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire. His mother being very proud; took her son to the newly acquired home, but it was in such disarray that they leased it out.

Throughout his life he had numerous lovers including a somewhat incestuous relationship with his half-sister Augusta Leigh.  Byron pursued the married Lady Caroline Lamb and engaged in a public affair. He married her cousin Anne, but the marriage ended in ruins as he wasn’t quite the marrying kind, which is hardly so surprising if you consider his ancestry. His father married for money twice and added the additional surname Gordon to claim his wife’s estate. After this the poet was known as George Byron Gordon. When he inherited his title he dropped the extra surname and was known as Lord Byron. After the death of his mother in law, her will required that he take on the name Noel to receive any inheritance, so he then became Lord Noel Byron and his wife was sometimes known as Lady Noel Byron. She however succeeded to the Barony of Wentworth and became Lady Wentworth. Confused? Nobody could make this stuff up; you’d fry your brain trying.

Byron was also friends with the Shelleys.  You remember Percy and Mary from blogs of the past? Well he caught up with them in Geneva after fleeing the country to get away from rumours of incest and sodomy.  He also caught up with Mary’s sister Claire Clairmont but they had been more than familiar with each other in London. He travelled through Italy and then to Greece where his life ended one tragic day at the age of 36.

I can imagine Lord Byron as a finger pointing winker.  The kind of man that would pluck a carnation cheekily from a flower stall for his jacket lapel and smile at the flower girl as payment. Or perhaps even kiss her hand and leave her swooning and giggling in delight.

The type of poetry that Byron wrote is narrative and in some cases lengthy. The poem Don Juan has more than 1600 lines and is unfortunately unfinished.  When the first two cantos were published, it was criticized and labelled immoral, but very popular none the less. The poem of his that I like best though is ‘She Walks in Beauty’ because it borders on truth. It’s said to be based on a moment in his life, just a single solitary moment that creates an image of a beautiful woman and brings together shades of dark and light. It’s slightly sombre, but extremely well put together. When you read the poem, you realise why this man remains one of the greatest British poets.

So I ventured out to take a picture of the Byron statue at Hyde Park corner. I was slightly confused as to where to find it but luckily I was able to engage the help of Kevin – a TFL Inspector, and his smartphone. He escorted me to the statue because he was curious to see it himself.  I’m not quite sure whose idea it was to put in on a traffic island in busy Park Lane, but I managed to get across the road unscathed.  After snapping the pic it took me another five minutes to get off the island.  I was beginning to feel like Gilligan.

Byron's statue, Hyde Park corner - thanks Kevin

To sum up Byron’s life and his contribution to literature isn’t something you can do lightly. I’m still trying to understand the whole name thing. But, even when you’re a Lord, money talks and if you want to maintain your womanising ways, the more you have the better the alibi you can buy. I could say a lot more about Byron and his wicked ancestry, but for now I must tell you that Once upon  a time in a few different countries, there was a poet lived a life that dare I say, was stranger than fiction.