Diana should be as passé as ostrich plumes: one of those royal or quasi-royal women, like Mary of Teck or Wallis Simpson or the last tsarina, whose images fade to sepia and whose bones are white as pearls. Instead, we gossip about her as if she had just left the room….
Continue reading Diana and the princess myth
The Guardian has been asking readers to send in photos of their favourite horrible ornaments. If there were a prize for this, Gert would certainly win:
Continue reading The eye of the beholder
Emily Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey reminded us of Tennyson’s marvellous poem Ulysses. Here are the closing lines:
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Just listen to the meter of that last line, the three heavy stresses falling on not to yield. Magnificent.
You can read the whole thing here:
Image: Wikimedia Commons
Gert was intrigued when she heard this on her trusty radio:
A lovely little reflection on The Odyssey in the Paris Review by Emily Wilson, the first woman to publish a translation.
As our friend Calmgrove complains, there are always more books to be read. These are piled up beside Gert’s bed right now: