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Tag Archives: Dr Johnson

Nil Desperandum

18 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by Candia in Humour, Language, Poetry, Relationships, Romance, Social Comment, Writing

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Tags

Dr Johnson, E-bay, Nil desperandum, Oscar Wilde, Spem in Alium

 

‘You could see it as a triumph of hope

over experience,’ the best man said.

‘He has hanged himself twice with his own rope

and he is lying in his own made bed.

To lose a wife was careless, but two…!

Third time lucky is what we wish for him.

To pull this latest one is quite a coup.’

Everyone was laughing, but the bride, grim,

brushed her hair from the tattoo on her neck:

Nil Desperandum – she had just had it done.

The sheepish groom thought, ‘I really must check

whom he quoted – Oscar Wilde, Dr Johnson?’

‘Sperm in alium,’ the cynics might say

when she posts her wedding gown on E-Bay.

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Manners Makyth Man

28 Wednesday Sep 2016

Posted by Candia in Architecture, Arts, Celebrities, Education, History, Humour, Jane Austen, Literature, Parenting, Religion, Social Comment, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

assessment objectives, Blue Badge Guide, Camelot, Clueless, Colin Firth, Dr Johnson, Elinor Dashwood, feretory, Harriet Smith, Jane Austen, Keats, Lady Bertram, Mary Tudor, Occam's razor, Ockham's Razor, Ode to Autumn, ossuaries, Philip of Spain, St Cross, Winchester Cathedral, Wykeham Arms

The third and possibly penultimate excerpt from Jane Austen’s musings from beneath the floor of Winchester Cathedral.

Today an insolent hussy stood on my stone and shrieked to her companion:

Colin Firth at the Nanny McPhee London premiereWow!  Get a load of this!  We are standing on that woman whose book we had to read for GCSE.  Except that our teacher just let us watch the DVD.  We had to compare it with “Clueless”, to show evidence of certain assessment objectives, but I got mixed up and was marked down.  It was the teacher’s fault.  She shouldn’t have confused me. My mum appealed, though, and I re-wrote that bit where Mr Thingy exits the lake in a wet t-shirt.  Mum said it was really cool.  Later she came here to give thanks for my success and slipped in a couple of prayer requests to The God of Camelot and a personal one that she might meet Colin Firth, with or without his wet clothing.

All of this was expressed in spite of a metal contraption which was attached to her teeth, so that I was as showered with saliva drops and my stone wetted, as if the Bishop had sprayed me with the rosemary twigs he uses at baptisms.  It isn’t always the best spot here, near the font.

But, at least we haven’t sunk to those adult total immersions yet.

Then the young woman proceeded to light a candle for me, muttering about there being no vanilla or blueberry-scented ones available.

Before I could utter the immortal phrase: It is a truth universally.. she was off, determined to see the feretory, as she loved those furry little creatures- or were they meerkats?  Simples is not the word.

Sometimes I raise my eyes to the metal hooks on the vasty pillars whose original function was to display the nuptial banners of Mary Tudor and Philip of Spain.  Since I cannot suspend myself thereby, I resort to turning over in my grave.  Someone should remind these youngsters of the motto of their local college:  Manners Makyth Man.  (And that is a generic, inclusive term.)

I try not to mind when tourists seem more interested in where Keats precisely commenced his walk to St Cross, before composing Ode to Autumn. 

Inside the Wykeham Arms, Winchester

I could easily interrupt the Blue Badge Guide and inform them that he first procured nuncheon and a pint of porter at The Wykeham Arms.  However, like my creation, Elinor Dashwood, I feel like commenting on his Romantic versification:

It is not everyone who shares your passion for dead leaves!

But, maybe this is somewhat scathing, even for me.

I still feel that a sermon well delivered is as rare as hens’ teeth.  The Evangelical varieties seem livelier, though hardly calculated to earn their exponents a succession to a stall in Westminster.

Some of the homilies could do with a firm shave by the venerable Occam’s razor, since they can be as mangled as the regal bones in the choir ossuaries and as dusty as the said receptacles themselves.  They might do well to remember the less intellectually endowed Harriet Smiths of this world, who do not always decipher obscure riddles and charades.  As Fielding said, however:

Clergy are men as well as other folks.

Portrait of Samuel Johnson commissioned for He...

Personally, I have been able to touch and affect a heterogeneous audience and consequently often have more than half a mind to rise and preach myself, though I heed Dr Johnson’s astute aphorisms regarding the fairer sex and sermonising:

A woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hinder legs.  It is not done well: but you are surprised to find it done at all.

I know that I can be eloquent on points in which my own conduct would have borne ill examination.  However, greater opportunity for inward reflection has led me to direct more of my sense of irony towards my own failings.  As the good doctor also said:

As I know more of mankind, I expect less and less of them and am ready now to call a man a good man upon easier terms than I was formerly.

However, I who have gently mocked the aspirations of others have been glad to be sheltered in the bosom of this place, as comfortably as Lady Bertram’s pug upon her chaise, but- prenez soin!  I am sometimes yet inclined to bare my needle sharp teeth and to sink them into some unsuspecting ankles- metaphorically, of course!

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Anthem for Doomed Language

09 Monday Nov 2015

Posted by Candia in History, Humour, Language, Literature, Music, Poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

'boldly go', anthem, auxiliary, Browning, Bruce Parry, cantabile, converge, da capo, declensions, Dr Johnson, Ethel Smyth, Florence Jenkins, genuflect, gerund, grammarians, infinitive, inflect, jam and Jerusalem, Kate Middleton's wedding, logorrheica, marked RP, moniker, Parry, participle, past perfect, pedagogy, persona, reprise, Richard D Altick, solecism, subjunctive, syntax, The Grammarian's Funeral, Vivat, Westminster Abbey

I heard it again, I groaned.

What?

Someone on the radio saying, ‘I was sat…’

Oh, I know, agreed Brassica.  It’s really annoying.

It made me think of Browning’s poem about the

grammarian’s funeral, I reflected.

What’s it called? asked Brassie- only mildly interested.

‘The Grammarian’s Funeral’, I think.  Anyway, his body is

being carried by his students to an elevated position, suitable

for his entombment.  There’s a lot of ‘leave the vulgar thorpes’

and ‘leave the unlettered…’

That’s not very kind, is it? remarked Brassie.  Browning sounds a

bit arrogant.

Robert Browning by Herbert Rose Barraud c1888.jpg

Never confuse an adopted persona with the poet himself, or

herself, I cautioned.

Well, I bet he was full of himself, rejoined Brassie.

Hmmm, Richard D. Altick said the grammarian was a dead

gerund-grinder, I countered.

Who’s Richard…?

Don’t even go there, I replied. There aren’t so many grammarians

nowadays.  As a group, they seem to have declined. And never speak

to the moniker; only the gerund-grinder.

She didn’t get the jokes.

When I heard that journalist saying ‘I was sat’, what do you

think came into my head?

Candia, how could I ever guess what would come into your

crazy mind?

Maybe you’ve got a point, but it was pure Parry.

Parry?  Bruce?  He’s quite fit- in both senses of the

word.

Typical.

No, the composer.  Hubert.

Blank look.

(Image uploaded by Tim Riley)

Think Kate Middleton’s wedding.  Westminster Abbey.

Oh, that Parry!  Why?

All I could hear was:

ANTHEM

I was sat…

‘sat’, when they said unto me.

You were NOT!  You were what??

‘Sitting’ is what it should be.

You stayed on that chair for some time,

so, in principle,

use a participle.

The past perfect’s a syntactic crime.

(Editor: This time the imperfect is fine)

Dadadadadadadadadada.

You were sitting- ‘sitting’ is what was agreed

is the norm; judged good form-

what Dr Johnson decreed.

All right- a cat might be sat on a Yorkshire mat

and the vowel in ‘sat’ will be probably flat,

but it’s quite simply the wrong tense. That is that!

If you’d refer to the work of grammarians,

you’d have more class;

sound slightly less crass

and not be lin-guis-ti-cally bar-ba-ri-an!

(cantabile)

O pray plenteous errors will justly decrease;

solecisms will wither and pall.

Recite declensions with fluency, ease:

genuflect,

and inflect-

shock them all!

You were ‘seated’;

‘seated’ is what is preferred.

It’s definitive,

like the infinitive:

so, ne-ver say ‘boldly go!’

Your feet ‘shall’ stand: that auxil-i-ary will show

your strength of will (in hail or snow);

you’ll be transfixed and simp-ly re-fuse to go.

Dadadadadadadadadada

I was gled.

‘Gled’ when I spoke marked RP.

Let us go…Tally ho!

into the royal marquee.

Inside I found jem and Jeru-salem

and tried to converge

(but then it emerged)

that the chep I thought was posh- just- made- the- tea.

I was glidding-

‘glidding‘ when they said unto me:

Let us go….Pedants, ho!

(That’s the subjunctive, you know.)

My feet...reprise

Da capo.

Then I was glud.

‘Glud‘ when some said unto me,

You’re prescriptive;

so restrictive.

Why don’t you go with the flow?

My heart leapt up as I su-dden-ly re-alised

that I’d been well advised

and parsed with ease, so easy pease, from way back in the mists of Prim’ry Three.

So, vivat Scolastica!

Vivat Grammatica!

Vivat Syntactica!

Vivat Pedagogica!

Vivat Logorrheica!

Vivat! Vivat! Vivat!

You just need an orchestra, said Brassie.

And a choir. And a large cheque book, or a sugar daddy.

I’ll have to ask if one can book Westminster Abbey.

You could reserve a New York venue like Ethel Smyth, the

conductor, or that Jenkins woman, suggested Brassie.

Narcissa Florence Jenkins?

Fits, said Brassie.  The name’s the giveaway.

Cheek!

Florence Foster Jenkins.jpg

(Wikipaedia)

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Table Talk

16 Saturday Aug 2014

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Education, Film, Humour, Literature, Poetry, Politics, Romance, Social Comment, Suttonford, television, Travel, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Alistair Darling, Arden House, bluestocking, Bogey, Boswell, chiasmus, Desert Father, diaspora, Dr Cruikshank, Dr Finlay's Casebook, Dr Johnson, Dr Snoddy, eggs Benedict, First Minister, Harley-Davidson, Lauren Bacall, Lichfield, Lives of the Poets, Mrs Thrale, Plan B, Rasselas, Sahara, Silk Route, stylites, table talk, Tannochbrae, Voisin

Lauren bacall promo photo.jpg

Shall we skip the Eggs Benedict?  Virginia had asked on their final morning

at the Pele Tower.  Fortunately, Snod was unaware of the implications

inherent in the euphemism that she expressed, in what she fancied was

a Lauren Bacall sultry growl.  He hadn’t watched too many Bond films and

was unlikely to have visited Voisin in NY.

He was anxious to get going before the traffic built up.  Maybe they could

break their journey in The Midlands?  Lichfield, perhaps.  He had always

wanted to visit Samuel Johnson’s birthplace.

It was a pity that he had to curtail the school holiday, but he had to be

available to the new Headmaster for preparatory discussions on what

should be on the agenda at the first Staff Meeting.

Virginia had to check that the printers had produced the new calendar.

The high road that leads to England…the noblest prospect! he quipped,

making reference to one of the great lexicographer’s sayings.

Well, it wasn’t a turn on for our previous Head Teacher, Virginia observed.

He preferred riding on a silk route through The Sahara on his Harley-

Davidson.  Maybe he had to spice up his erstwhile academic life. 

Different kind of caravan holiday from the usual.

Johnson once said there was desert enough in Scotland. Snod’s mind

began to wander to visions of its First Minister as a Desert Father,

sitting ‘on his tod‘ atop a pillar, stylites-style.  Best place for him,

since he advocated splendid isolation for his compatriots.

They do say that Scotland’s education system is superior, mused

Virginia.  Would you agree?

Ah, pontificated Snod, as my essayist hero said of the generic Highlander,

his fearlessness of assertion may either be the sport of negligence, or

the refuge of ignorance.

Sounds like a very astute analysis of Salmond’s performance in his

last debate with Darling.  Virginia’s ripostes were gaining momentum.

I suppose the Scots’ independence of vision might have been nurtured by

the fact that no enemy would invade them, as there is nothing to be

acquired but oil. Yet the natives refer to their home as The Promised

Land.

Samuel Johnson by Joshua Reynolds.jpg

As the good doctor remarked, Snod smiled, God may have made it, but

He made Hell too.  But, to return to the debate, at the end of the evening,

Darling might have addressed his opponent with a Johnsonian put-down:

‘I have found you an argument, but am not obliged to find you an

understanding.’  Or, imagine the effect of a chiasmic remark such as:

Alex, your fantastical Plan B is characterised by features both good and

original. 

However, the part that is good is not original and the part that is

original is not good!

AlistairDarlingABr cropped.jpg

Virginia tried to change the subject since she had always been

taught that politics was not a suitable subject for table talk. At any

rate, we have eaten very well, in spite of the legendary abysmal

Scottish diet.

Yes, returned Snod.  I suppose they have to take sufficient

nourishment to give them the strength to escape from their

terrible weather.  It explains the diaspora.

But this summer we have experienced better weather here than

down south, corrected Virginia.

Yes, but it is always damp.  The whole country consists of stone and

water.  As Dr Johnson told Boswell, there may be a little earth above the

stone in some places, but only a very little.  He described the landscape

as being like a man in rags; the naked skin peeping out.  

James Boswell of Auchinleck.jpg

Oh, I think you enjoyed your stay, in spite of all your grumbling,

laughed Virginia. It wasn’t only Bacall that could tame a Bogeyman.

It’s all a matter of taste, replied Snod.  As Lord Eldon reminded

Boswell, taste is the judgement manifested when [one]

determines to leave Scotland and come to the South.

Mrs Connolly came in unobtrusively, to clear the breakfast dishes.

Virginia stood up to leave and finish her packing.

Don’t be rude, Gus.  Where do you come from, Mrs Connolly?

I do indeed come from Scotland, Mrs Fisher-Giles, but I cannot help it.

She entered into the spirit of the banter.

That…is what a very great many of your countrymen ..cannot help,

retorted Snod.

Barbara Mullen.jpg

He was delighted by the housekeeper’s classless erudition. Their

education must be superior indeed!  Janet might have left Dr Finlay’s

porridge to burn if she had been engrossed in Lives of the Poets, or Dr

Snoddy might have been left unannounced in Arden House’s parlour

while she finished Rasselas over a wee cuppa and an oatcake.

Andrew Cruickshank.jpg

Dr Cameron might have had to clear her etymological index cards from

his desk so that he could pen a prescription in Latin, which she could

have interpreted to the Tannochbrae chemist over a crackly phone

connection.

She was probably the one who wrote the script from the original

casebook.

We’d better be getting on down the road, Mrs Connolly, Snod suddenly

said, rather wearily.

Turning to Virginia he remarked gloomily, At least I only have a few

more pensionless academic sessions to go before I retire.

Oh, cheer up, she flicked a napkin at him, much to the housekeeper’s

delight.  Don’t think of retiring from the world until the world is sorry that

you retire!

As he cleaned his teeth and performed his final ablutions before

the journey, Snod reflected that, surprisingly, he hadn’t tired of

Virginia’s company all that week and, if it was not for the pressing

urgency of his schoolmasterly duties, he wouldn’t mind spending the

rest of his life driving briskly round the countryside with such a pretty

woman who understood him and, as Johnson discovered in the shape

of Mrs Thrale, who could add something to the conversation.  And, come

to think of it, his preferred type of hosiery was definitely now a

bluestocking.

 

 

 

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Opera in the Park 2

06 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, Humour, Music, Social Comment, Suttonford, Theatre, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

balalaika, Border Terrier, candelabra, Dr Johnson, Highland Spring Mineral Water, Kettle Chips, Liberace, Pravda, Putin, Raskatov, Samoyed, scrims, Sobac'e Serdce, wasabi butter

Border Terrier.jpg

Brassica thought her heart would burst with pride when the semi-

transparent scrims revealed the symmetrical shadows of her pinioned

progeny.  She squeezed Cosmo’s hand, but his mind was elsewhere, as it

often was when she attempted such familiarities.  He was worrying what

havoc was being wreaked by Andy, their manic Border terrier, who had

been stair-gated in the kitchen for the duration.

When the boys raced out to meet their parents at the interval, they pulled

open the wicker hamper.

Don’t knock the candelabra over, darlings, said Brassie in her best operatic,

carrying voice.  She had just noticed another parent from the boys’ school.

She hoped the woman wouldn’t think she was a fan of Liberace.

But, Mum, where’s the pastrami and Serrano ham?

Mum, who ate the Balsamic Vinegar Kettle Chips?

Brassie looked into the hamper with horror.  The cylinder of Wasabi butter

which she had rolled in greaseproof paper bore the evidence of canine

dentition.  Some mushy strawberries lay squelched at the bottom of the

basket and the double cream had leaked everywhere.

There was nothing for it, but to crack open the warm bubbly- Andy had

even managed to knock the lid off the ice bucket.  The boys had Highland

Spring Mineral Water.

You know what this means, Dad? said Pollux ruefully.

What son?  Cosmo was grieving over the Kettle Chip loss; he had never

been a great fan of opera.

It means, clarified Pollux, that we can’t ask Mr Poskett if Andy can audition

for the lead role in Sobac’e Serdce, in next season’s programme.

Yes, added Castor, the new opera by Raskatov.

But Andy can’t speak Russian, joked their father.

No, but it’s all about a dog that loses its fur and tail and walks upright

and plays the balalaika.

TenorBalalaika1.jpg

Are you serious? asked Brassie, who was sucking a mulchy strawberry.

She remembered that Dr Johnson had made a remark to the effect that,

although a dog could walk on its hind legs, it didn’t necessary follow that it

should- or was he referring to a woman?  She couldn’t quite recall the exact

quotation.

Well, replied their father, Andy certainly isn’t disciplined enough to be on

stage.

Samojed00.jpg

No, but now the caretaker’s ex- wife’s Samoyed will probably get the part,

mourned Castor.

Oh, that dog that’s called Putin? said Pollux.

It probably understands Russian, so it would have a head start, commented

Castor.  Mr Poskett is bound to choose it over Andy.

Pravda, Brassie said disconsolately, realising that the curtain was about

to descend on their familial spot in the limelight.

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My name is Candia. Its initial consonant alliterates with “cow” and there are connotations with the adjective “candid.” I started writing this blog in the summer of 2012 and focused on satire at the start.

Interspersed was ironic news comment, reviews and poetry.

Over the years I have won some international poetry competitions and have published in reputable small presses, as well as reviewing and reading alongside well- established poets. I wrote under my own name then, but Candia has taken me over as an online persona. Having brought out a serious anthology last year called 'Its Own Place' which features poetry of an epiphanal nature, I was able to take part in an Arts and Spirituality series of lectures in Winchester in 2016.

Lately I have been experimenting with boussekusekeika, sestinas, rhyme royale, villanelles and other forms. I am exploring Japanese themes at the moment, my interest having been re-ignited by the recent re-evaluations of Hokusai.

Thank you to all my committed followers whose loyalty has encouraged me to keep writing. It has been exciting to meet some of you in the flesh- in venues as far flung as Melbourne and Sydney!

Copyright Notice

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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