Best hangover description, ever!

From Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe. i enjoyed this book so much, and I think it’s time for me to read it again. I always remembered that the hangover description here couldn’t be improved on. The pain of it was staggering. So here’s a taste of it:

The telephone blasted Peter Fallow awake inside an egg with the shell peeled away and only the membranous sac holding it intact. Ah! The membranous sac was his head, and the right side of his head was on the pillow, and the yolk was as heavy as mercury, and it was pressing down on his right temple and his right eye and his right ear. If he tried to get up to answer the telephone, the yolk, the mercury, the poisoned mass, would shift and roll and rupture the sac, and his brains would fall out . . .

The telephone was on the floor, in the corner, near the window, on the brown carpet. The carpet was disgusting. Synthetic; the Americans manufactured filthy carpet; Metalon, Streptolon, deep, shaggy, with a feel that made his flesh crawl. Another explosion; he was looking straight at it, a white telephone and a slimy white cord lying there in a filthy shaggy brown nest of Streptolon. Behind the Venetian blinds the sun was so bright it hurt his eyes . . .

These days he often woke up like this, poisonously hung over, afraid to move an inch and filled with an abstract feeling of despair and shame. Whatever he had done was submerged like a monster at the bottom of a cold dark lake. His memory had drowned in the night, and he could only feel the icy despair. He had to look for the monster deductively, fathom by fathom. Sometimes he knew that whatever it had been, he couldn’t face it . . .

The telephone exploded again. He opened his eyes and squinted at the sun-drenched modern squalor, and with his eyes open it was even worse . . .

He rolled out of the bed and put his feet on the floor, and the horrible yolk shifted. He was thrown into a violent headache. He wanted to vomit, but he knew it would hurt his head too much for him to possibly allow it to happen. He started towards the telephone. He sank to his knees and then to all fours. He crawled to the telephone, picked up the receiver, and then lay down on the carpet, hoping the yolk would settle again.

“Hello,” he said.

So, there you are. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed typing it out, chuckling as I worked.

If This is a Man | A poem by Primo Levi

This poem is printed at the beginning of Levi’s book, “If This is a Man | The Truce”, which is a truly wonderful book. I re-read it recently and felt I had to share the poem.

You who live safe

In your warm houses,

You who find, returning in the evening,

Hot food and friendly faces:

Consider if this is a man

Who works in the mud

Who does not know peace

Who fights for a scrap of bread

Who dies because of a yes or a no,

Consider if this is a woman,

Without hair and without name

With no more strength to remember,

Her eyes empty and her womb cold

Like a frog in winter.

Meditated that this came about:

I commend these words to you.

Carve them in your hearts

At home, in the street,

Going to bed, rising;

Repeat them to your children.

Or, may your house call apart,

May illness impede you,

May your children turn their faces from you.

Upcoming books | Felix Finds Out, and Ghosts in Trouble.

When I first began to write, I wrote only for children, and published a book called The Silver Tea-Set which was published in 1990. Then there was FELIX FINDS OUT which I never did anything with. Since Christmas I have been working hard on both books and they are now ready for publication in paperback and on kindle. The Silver Tea-Set has been restructured, updated and renamed, and I’ll be uploading both books on Friday. In the meantime here is a sample from each. I should say they would suit children between 9 and 12, according to my beta reader – my grandson.

From FELIX FINDS OUT:

Felix was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, his short legs sticking out in front of him, and his homework balanced on his knees. One side of his face and one arm and leg were hot; the other side of him was frozen. He was trying to get through his maths homework so he could get back to Harry Potter (he was reading the very first book) but Uncle Eddie wouldn’t stop talking. He was upset again, worrying about his job at the pub on the corner.

         Felix was only half-listening to him. He was thinking about the Fancy Dress party; to be held in the evening of the last school day before the Christmas break. He didn’t want to go; the whole school would be there and all the teachers and all the parents. He wouldn’t be able to breathe.

         Eddie’s voice rose and Felix sighed and looked up at him.

         “The only thing I know for sure,” Eddie said, walking up and down and squeezing his hands together, “is that someone is stealing. It’s not me, and it’s not Mrs Boyd. We have our suspicions, you know, oh indeed we do. In fact, we’re quite sure it’s that Hennessy who works weekends but we can’t prove it. And now we’re on our last warning! The boss says he’ll get the police in and then he’ll sack the lot of us, guilty or not.”

From GHOSTS IN TROUBLE:

Lizzie smiled to herself, swaying about the room with a duster, thinking of coffee and cream buns, and then she saw Cormac, almost stumbling up the path. He leaned against the door, wheezing and panting for breath,  clutching his chest. Lizzie gave a little squeal.

“What is it? Cormac! What’s wrong?”

Cormac fanned his face. Grey wisps of hair rose and fell on his shiny head as he tried to steady his breathing. His big hands flopped and flapped helplessly and his nose, big and bright in his face, quivered.

“Cormac,” Lizzie cried again. “Speak to me! Is it the police? Oh, come in, come in. Don’t stand there gasping where anyone could see you.”

Cormac stumbled into the hall, nearly knocking down a stack of mirrors and Lizzie shut the door smartly behind him. She pushed him onto the nearest empty chair.

“Now,” she said. “If you don’t speak, I’ll murder you.”

And her eyes raked the room for something sharp to threaten him with. Cormac patted his chest, coughed and caught his voice at last.

“Oh, Lizzie,” he said. “Wait till I tell you what I saw this morning. The most beautiful thing – oh, we’ve got to have it. The most beautiful, lustrous, shining – “

And he smiled and closed his eyes.

“Yes?” said Lizzie, bending over him. “Go on, the most lustrous, shining what? What? Go on!”

Her fists were tightly clenched, and her arms swung stiffly forwards and back and she was ready to thump Cormac, or scream, or kick him, when he sat up straight and opened his dreamy eyes.

“A silver tea-set,” he said, his voice reverent. “And we’re going to have it, Lizzie. I can see it now, set out on our table and me pouring tea into those special, pink cups we’ve never used.”

And his eyelids drooped again as he painted pictures in his head, ignoring the way Lizzie was staring at him with her eyebrows as high up her face as they would go.

        

The books will be available in paperback and on kindle.

Thanks for reading this!

LAMENT from “Minus One”

I think I posted this poem before, but I am moved to repeat it. So much unhappiness and absolute misery in various parts of the world – nothing to do with Covid, just people mistreating other people. Why do we do this? And it has always been the way of humans.

My mouth is stretched –

A soundless wail of anguish

For the sorrows of the world

An eye into hell

In the corner of my room

Cry out your lamentations

Prostrate yourselves

And weep, and weep, and weep.

“Skiey Blossoms”

I was walking along the river today, enjoying all the trees and hedges covered with blossoms, feeling all Spring-like, and a line from a poem I learned in school, came into my head. I thought I would share some of it with you all. It’s from “The Hound of Heaven” by Francis Thomson. It seems apt for Easter weekend.

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

I fled Him, down the arches of the days;

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears

I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

(Yet I was sore adread

Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.)

But, if one little casement parted wide,

The gust of His approach would clash it to:

Fear wist not to evaxe, as Love wist to pursue.

Across the margent of the world I fled,

And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,

Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars;

Fretted to dulcet jars

And silvern clatter the pale ports o’ the moon.

I said to Dawn: Be sudden – to Eve: Be soon –

With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over

From this tremendous lover!

From Sea and Sardinia by D H Lawrence | an excerpt

Some days, in an idle moment, I stand at my bookcase and run my eyes over the shelves, and very often I take down this book and open it at random. I have posted excerpts from Sea and Sardinia before, but I find the whole book irresistible so I hope you will excuse another one!

The lovely dawn: lovely pure, wide morning in the mid-sea, so golden-aired and delighted, with the sea like sequins shaking, and the sky far, far, far above, unfathomably clear. How glad to be on a ship! What a golden hour for the heart of man! ah if one could sail for ever, on a small quiet, lonely ship, from land to land and isle to isle, and saunter through the spaces of this lovely world,, always through the spaces of this lovely world. Sweet it would be sometimes to come to the opaque earth, to block oneself against the stiff land, to annul the vibration of one’s flight against the inertia of terra firma! but life itself would be in the flight, the tremble of space. Ah the trembling of never-ended space, as one moves in flight! Space, and the frail vibration of space, the glad lonely wringing of the heart. Not to be clogged to the land any more. Not to be any more like a donkey with a log on its leg, fastened to weary earth that has no answer now. But to be off.

To find three masculine, world-lost souls, and world-lost saunter and saunter on along with them, across the dithering space, as long as life lasts! Why come to anchor? There is nothing to anchor for. Land has no answer to the soul any more. It has gone inert. Give me a little ship, kind gods, and three world-lost comrades. Hear me! And let me wander aimless across this vivid outer world, the world empty of man, where space flies happily.

The lovely, celandine-yellow morning of the open sea, paling towards a rare, sweet blue! The sun stood above the horizon, like the great burning stigma of the sacred flower of day.

Reluctantly I must put the book down now to finish this post. I hope some of you enjoy it as much as myself.