Saturday, November 01, 2008
More Durrell
Today's violent snippet is from a vignette about camels at a hard-core Coptic festival in the Alexandrian desert. According to the vignette, a herd of camels was driven to the festival for slaughter for the evening feasting. So far, so good. The not-so-nice bit is that the camels were simply sat down on the sand and hacked to peices with axes, not necessarily starting with the head first. It was claimed that the camels just sat there and took their punishment. So, first point, is there any truth in it? Did anything of the sort happen; did the camels just sit there? This last seems very unlikely unless they were drugged in some way. Second point, why invent such a story? What would be the point? All I can think of is that Durrell wanted to rub in the violent stain (or strain) to life in an otherwise relatively civilised Alexandria - and was quite happy to invent something to make the point. Or perhaps the point is more complicated. He put the vignette into a letter from one charectar to another. First charectar is an author, obviously unsound being an arty type, and invents the whole thing for the confusion of his correspondant. The point is to tell us something about the author charectar in the novel not something about Alexandria. One could dream up even more complicated scenarios but I don't believe that that should be necessary. So I give up.
The arty type committed suicide, as did a daughter of Durrell. Making him the third author of his period to lose a daughter in that way (the other two being Joyce and Simenon). Arty types clearly are unsound.
I believe it to be the case that one can reliably identify an author from an analysis of the frequency with which he or she uses words. A statistical wheeze which inhabits many PhDs about Shakespeare's authorship or not of various minor oeuvres. In the case of Durrell, I believe that his use of the word 'gonfalon' would be a marker of this sort. Mr G tells me that it is a special sort of flag, hung horizonatally from a crossbar, often with ribbons or streamers and often in Italian towns. Despite the word being of Germanic - perhaps Lombardian - origin. But why would Durrell be so keen on the word? He was a greekophile not an italianophile.
Yesterday to Dawlish to see the mucky ducks. First, to the seaside which looked well in the bright winter afternoon sunlight. Clear view of land dropping into the sea somewhere east of Exmouth. Then we convinced ourselves that a grey smudge to the east of that was also land. Rather than a cloud or wishful thinking. I decided that it was Portland. But inspection of a map this morning makes this look a bit unlikely; wrong bearing. The smudge, if indeed it was land, must have been a bit to the north of Chesil beach rather than a bit to the south. Must take a map and a compass next time. The second time I have said that in less than that many weeks.
Then we find that Dawlish, as well as running to many bucket and spade shops, cafes, clotted cream and fudge shops, also runs to a butcher with a reasonable stock - although like most of his brethren he has been pushed into delicatassen to pull his turnover up. Fairly hefty leg of lamb, shrink wrapped and said to be local produce, for £20. I dare say a good deal less than we would have paid in the poncey butcher attached these days to Powderham Castle, in which connection I observe that it follows that Prince Charley is not the only posh to move into the grocery trade. The Duke of Devon (or perhaps Earl. I forget which lives at Powderham. But I do remember that either the Duchess or the Countess of Devon is not at all posh. Maybe a barmaid from Eton) is at it too. We will see what the BH makes of it tomorrow.
Then back over the hills via Mamhead. It would have been too much for me on a bicycle and it would have been a good day's walk on foot, but even from the car, the woods were a bit special, as were the views. Not, however, equipped with beauty spots where one could pause and admire the view. But we did pause at a well-refurbished collection of huts, next to the Gissons Hotel, called the Exeter Crest. The reception area had been very smartly done up with bar, restaurant and friendly staff attached. Tea and toasted tea cakes smartly done up too and we paid rather less than we would have paid in Dawlish. All goes to show that hotels remain a good wheeze for teas. The Gissons Hotel, used to be a well known night spot forty years ago, before burning down in what I (possibly quite wrongly) remember as suspicious circumstances. I wonder how the two places get on, being slap-bang next door and out in the country?
The arty type committed suicide, as did a daughter of Durrell. Making him the third author of his period to lose a daughter in that way (the other two being Joyce and Simenon). Arty types clearly are unsound.
I believe it to be the case that one can reliably identify an author from an analysis of the frequency with which he or she uses words. A statistical wheeze which inhabits many PhDs about Shakespeare's authorship or not of various minor oeuvres. In the case of Durrell, I believe that his use of the word 'gonfalon' would be a marker of this sort. Mr G tells me that it is a special sort of flag, hung horizonatally from a crossbar, often with ribbons or streamers and often in Italian towns. Despite the word being of Germanic - perhaps Lombardian - origin. But why would Durrell be so keen on the word? He was a greekophile not an italianophile.
Yesterday to Dawlish to see the mucky ducks. First, to the seaside which looked well in the bright winter afternoon sunlight. Clear view of land dropping into the sea somewhere east of Exmouth. Then we convinced ourselves that a grey smudge to the east of that was also land. Rather than a cloud or wishful thinking. I decided that it was Portland. But inspection of a map this morning makes this look a bit unlikely; wrong bearing. The smudge, if indeed it was land, must have been a bit to the north of Chesil beach rather than a bit to the south. Must take a map and a compass next time. The second time I have said that in less than that many weeks.
Then we find that Dawlish, as well as running to many bucket and spade shops, cafes, clotted cream and fudge shops, also runs to a butcher with a reasonable stock - although like most of his brethren he has been pushed into delicatassen to pull his turnover up. Fairly hefty leg of lamb, shrink wrapped and said to be local produce, for £20. I dare say a good deal less than we would have paid in the poncey butcher attached these days to Powderham Castle, in which connection I observe that it follows that Prince Charley is not the only posh to move into the grocery trade. The Duke of Devon (or perhaps Earl. I forget which lives at Powderham. But I do remember that either the Duchess or the Countess of Devon is not at all posh. Maybe a barmaid from Eton) is at it too. We will see what the BH makes of it tomorrow.
Then back over the hills via Mamhead. It would have been too much for me on a bicycle and it would have been a good day's walk on foot, but even from the car, the woods were a bit special, as were the views. Not, however, equipped with beauty spots where one could pause and admire the view. But we did pause at a well-refurbished collection of huts, next to the Gissons Hotel, called the Exeter Crest. The reception area had been very smartly done up with bar, restaurant and friendly staff attached. Tea and toasted tea cakes smartly done up too and we paid rather less than we would have paid in Dawlish. All goes to show that hotels remain a good wheeze for teas. The Gissons Hotel, used to be a well known night spot forty years ago, before burning down in what I (possibly quite wrongly) remember as suspicious circumstances. I wonder how the two places get on, being slap-bang next door and out in the country?
# posted by Jim @ 3:36 AM 
