Middlefocus

The Newer World by Sebastian Barry - an appreciation

2026-09-07T22:48:04.224+01:00

I very much appreciate Sebastian Barry's writing, a feeling that has only grown stronger after hearing him speak at an author event some years ago.

Whenever one of his titles appears, it goes straight onto my "to be read" pile. For some reason, although I purchased them, I have never got around to reading his American Civil War series. As a result, when NetGalley offered me an ARC of The Newer World, his latest book, I wondered whether I was approaching things back to front. Would my enjoyment of this novel be diminished by not having read the previous ones?

I needn't have worried. I enjoyed it immensely as a standalone novel.

The opening chapter drew me immediately into what I thought was going to be a particular story. Then, quite matter-of-factly, that apparent beginning was set aside and a different path emerged. Brilliant. I loved that.

The publisher’s description of the novel promised a multi-layered character who in the person of Tennyson Bouguereau – “ a freed man, devoted brother, nascent singer, conflicted soldier and wanted man – journeys to find meaning and belonging”. For me it was an Odyssey and indeed there are several references to Homer and that work throughout. I was struck by the sentence: “I knew as I made my way home that there was no home.”

Other, deceptively simple phrases made me stop, reflect and savour. Consider these: “the rumpled grave”, “the granite of grief lifted off her", ”late-evening sun trying to listen in at the high windows” , "corpse cold rain." Beautiful.

One of the things I noticed and liked in this novel was the author's willingness to leave gaps in the narrative. Here I was worrying that I ought to have read the earlier books in the series when I encountered this sequence:

"There’s a strange gap in my memory between the death of my mother and the beginning of the war in ’61. That’s a long stretch of years. Looking back there are a few times in my life when I’d be hard put to account for the years.”

What happened during that period? What experiences have shaped the characters in the meantime? Sebastian Barry is content to leave such questions unanswered.

I particularly liked that this elision of time comes through the words of a character rather than from an all-knowing narrator. It feels entirely natural. The author does not stand above the story directing our attention. Instead, the characters themselves carry us forward. It is their story. When they disappear for a time, or move beyond our sight, we do not know what has happened to them any more than we would in real life. This was the case, for example when Tennyson leaves America to travel with a choir to England. What of his sister back home?

As a result, the reader must do a little work, and all the better for it. At times, it feels as though the main character is speaking directly to you. There is real engagement here. You find yourself considering motivations and longing to ask questions. Why did you do that? What were you thinking? Could you go back?

All of this made for a deeply satisfying reading experience. I know that because, although I did not read the book in one sustained sitting, I was always eager to find a quiet moment to return to it. It captured my attention and held it throughout.

I am delighted that I have the earlier books in the series because I now intend to begin this American journey from the start. And while I am doing so, I suspect that I shall reread The Newer World as well.

I also have a strong feeling that this is not the end of the story. It will not surprise me if another novel follows.

That, perhaps, is a question I can put to Sebastian Barry himself at another upcoming author event. He is appearing in the Belfast International Arts Festival programme this October and thanks to Faber and Faber and NetGalley, attending that event will be even more enjoyable for having read the book beforehand.

I warmly commend The Newer World to your bookshelf.

Publication details:

The Newer World
Sebastian Barry
Published by Faber and Faber
Advance Reader Copy (ARC) supplied by NetGalley
Read on Kindle
Publication date: 10 September 2026

My rating: 5*

More: Here is the event page from the Belfast International Arts Festival 2026:

Places and Moments: The canal horse carving at the Lagan towpath

2026-08-24T13:30:00.000+01:00

Attention went first to the flowers and bunting at the entrance to the Lock Keeper's Café at the Lagan Towpath and then catching my eye there it was a carving of a horse being lead by its handler. Not in sight but inferred is the canal boat, called a "lighter" that was used to transport goods along the water in former days.

It's a nice reminder of days gone by: days of horses, draysmen, locks and lockkeepers. Thanks to all those volunteers who act as guides to the Lock Keeper's Cottage right at the opening and to those who welcome visitors on board the old barge just opposite. In those locations you can hear stories of the people who lived and worked there. And plenty of information too for those who welcome every day as a new learning opportunity.

The carved horse is a reminder to pause and pay attention.

Harder times, no doubt, and slower.

A vintage wall box

2026-08-23T13:38:05.105+01:00

Curious, I stopped in front of this object embedded in a wall. A box, of course but for what purpose? My initial reaction was that it was for letters but there is no opening through which to post them.

My attention moved to the central keyhole - without a handle this appears to be the sole means of opening and closing the box. It is visibly old with its aged yellow surround like an aura smudged at its centre with traces of red and blue. Distressed and much weathered, the name of the manufacturer is worn or overpainted and so not quite visible.

Although recessed, the box stands out from its surrounding gaining prominence from the black background. It sits on a band of blue, separated from another at the base.

Curlicues painted black and orange on a red background reprise the ornate scroll work at the top of the box.

I am curious about this.

Does the key still exist? Does it work? How many copies of it are there? And I am curiouser still about its purpose. If not letters then what contents did it keep safe?

A search online suggests it’s either a mail box or a utility box from a very old building. However I am not yet decided and will investigate further.

What do you think?

A mist of web and raindrops

2026-08-17T15:09:35.031+01:00

I nearly walked past this shrub earlier on.

I'm glad I didn't because a little while later this natural occurence had disappeared.
A mist of web and raindrops had cloaked the plant. Entrapment by spiders surely to lure in unwary insects.
The strategy reminded me a little of the Sirenes singing in the Ulysses epic. So as not to yield to the tempting invitation the hero in that story had himself bound to the ship's mast while the sailors had their ears blocked with wax so they couldn't hear the fateful song. It succeeded in the story but I am not sure how it worked out for the insects or the spiders in the shrub.
I cannot really criticise the insects for falling prey. It's part of the natural cycle of things.
And anyway, I stopped to investigate so I guess I too fell for the strategy.
Glad I stopped and paid attention though. Would have "mist" it otherwise.
Have you had a similar experience? Spotted any other of nature's fatal attractions?

A favourite curious opening

2026-08-04T20:00:00.000+01:00

One of my favourite "curious openings" snapped on a trip to Granada, Andalucia, Spain back in 2023.

I remember that I spotted it and returned to take the picture. I wondered then and have wondered since why such a lovely door received so much graffiti attention.

You will see the starred handle easily enough but the keyhole is tiny. It seems out of proportion with the stature of the door. I wonder who passes through the opening and what stories lie behind.

Were the inhabitants present when the "artists" went to work? Did they hear the spray can hiss and splatter? Or did they return home to find the damage done? Was it one night's work or spread over time?

A recurrent problem? Was the apparent sturdiness of the door the very thing that drew the antisocial behaviour?

Curious indeed.

Where are the kings. Donal Ryan. Reflection.

2026-07-24T16:09:23.694+01:00

I have physical copies of all of Donal Ryan's books, so when NetGalley offered me an advance reader copy of Where Are the Kings for review, I jumped at the chance. The title immediately intrigued me. Was a question mark missing?

A glance at the dedication page deepened the mystery. There was an extract from WB Yeats's On Baile's Strand, depicting someone fighting "crowns" on the waves amid cries of "Where are the kings?" The passage hints at struggle, grief and perhaps even madness—elements that resonate throughout the novel.

Just a few minutes into the first chapter, I read:

“There doesn't have to be a reason for crying.  Sometimes crying just starts itself up in a person, and the person has no control of it.”

This is our young protagonist, 12-year-old Jack, watching his mother. What a premise.  Why is she crying? I'm hooked. This, surely, would be a novel exploring emotions, most likely of grief.  

And it is - Jack, the good boy of chapter one, is only 12 years old, as he races his bike down a hill in pursuit of his mother's car. He's trying to catch her before she gets to the nearby lake. Jack's life changes forever on that day.  We meet him next in the embrace of his maternal family. His grandparents, his uncles, Haulie and Theo along with his aunt Rose, on whom he has a crush, and his cousin JJ.  His father is not yet present. We learn:

“There was something between Mam's family and Dad. Bad blood”.

We are also told that dad is “in a hospital that looks after people whose nerves are at them.”

The novel takes us on a series of episodes or interactions as Jack moves through his teenage years, dealing with awakenings and fantasies. One senses a buildup of rage, and a need to understand. His mother is always in mind.  We learn at one point that:

“… Mam's laughter Jack could hardly remember what it sounded like until just now, he can hear it in the memory of waves.”

Those waves again.  This is what I love about Donal Ryan's writing, with an economy of words he can set scenes for us and place us in them as observers. I'm not sure how he manages to do this, and maybe I should go back and reread places where he achieves this so brilliantly. For example, there's a scene where the local priest visits the grandparents' home, effectively demanding compliance with the Church's teaching regarding respectful disposal of mortal remains.  The young Jack who has been listening to the exchanges outside, takes decisive action. We are in that room.

I loved how the characters were drawn. They feel entirely real and with their manner of speaking I felt that I knew them or people very much like them - people who are of a place and the place is in them. People that ring true.

Yes, my initial thinking is confirmed. This is a book about loss and grief. It is also about belonging and how people look out for each other.  It's an appropriate read for today's world.

The episodes build the narrative and we are in Jack’s mind as a critical fateful moment approaches.  Jack is about to do something from which there is no way back:

“Jack can time his steps to the beat of a poem, the one about the pilot who is about to die, and he knows it, and he doesn't care.”

There's Donal Ryan again, using another reference to William Butler Yeats. This time deploying the poem An Irish Airman Foresees His Death. Incidentally, the first book I ever read by the author was, All We Shall Know, its title again referencing a line from a poem by Yeats. An intervention by his uncles, Haulie and Theo, brings us some relief.

From here the novel gathers momentum and moves to another point of no return.

Dream or trance-like, we move to the conclusion, and it's in the very last sentence we realise, not just where are the kings, but who the kings are. Wonderful.

I really liked this book, and especially the relatability of the characters. As an exploration of grief and guilt, I'd recommend it to those working with boys, especially in roles helping them to deal with their emotions in the so-called manosphere. For me, it's a work concerned with hope and trust after grief.  

I enjoyed it immensely and awarded it 4 stars. Thoughtful and compassionate it lingers long after that final sentence. I commend it to your bookshelves!

With renewed thanks to Transworld Digital and NetGalley for the ARC edition. I will however want to continue building my Donal Ryan library and will be getting the physical copy to add to my collection when it is published in August 2026.

Publication details

Where Are The Kings
Donal Ryan
Transworld Digital, Penguin Random House, via NetGalley
Advance Reader Copy (ARC)
Read on Kindle
Publication date: August 2026

My Rating: 4*

Night flight by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry - and a tragic poignancy

2026-07-14T16:00:00.000+01:00

Night Flight, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, with an introduction by André Gide

Translated by Stuart Gilbert,

Penguin Books, 1940 edition.

This English translation of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's Vol de Nuit came from a late friend's bookshelves. The Penguin edition with its distinctive orange-and-white cover, denoting works of fiction, is now 86 years old and the content very much of its time. Aviation was in its pioneering age and although the events described are tragic, the French writer, André Gide in his introduction writes "great though these risks still are, they are growing daily less, for each successive trip facilitates and improves the prospects of the next one." Sadly those diminishing risks were not realised as is apparent by another book from the same shelves—a book that survived an air crash.

Back in 2001 my friend had ordered a title on the Geology of Ireland from a bookseller in Selkirk, Scotland. The book was on board an aircraft that crashed into the Firth of Forth, North of Edinburgh on 27 February that year. Both pilots tragically lost their lives.

He had not expected to receive the book yet Royal Mail working with the Police and Air Accident Investigators were later in a position to release the mail which was on board and so it continued its journey. It was delivered with a caution to handle with care as although it had been dried out as far as possible it might yet retain traces of aviation fuel residue.

As you can see from the picture of the green-backed book above, there is obvious water damage, and twenty-five years on there still remains the feint scent of aviation fuel on the cover.

The coincidence was impossible to ignore. Here was a novella, Night Flight, about men risking their lives to carry the mail through the night, and alongside it a book that had completed its own journey only after the deaths of the pilots transporting it. The real-life tragedy lent an unexpected poignancy to Saint-Exupéry's fictional one.

Central to both events, the real and the fictional, is the sense of duty.

In Night Flight, the action takes place in the skies above Argentina and in the command station on the ground. The weather for the flight, initially fair, grows progressively worse - a thunderstorm approaches.

We meet the characters in the book: the pilot, Fabien, whose wife is worried sick about him, and the hard-driving, ground-based boss, Rivière who holds his pilots to high standards, demanding more and more from them.

Another character, Robineau is the station manager and he is instructed by Rivière on how to deal with staff:

“If they obey you because they like you, Robineau, you're fooling them. You have no right to ask any sacrifice of them.”

Yet there is also an awareness of the contradictory nature of command:

“Love the men under your orders, but do not let them know it.”

As the night wears on the thunderstorm worsens and radio contact with the plane is being lost. Rivière appears to entertain some doubts about his strict policies and reflects:

“Am I just or unjust? I've no idea. All I know is that when I hit hard, there are fewer accidents.”

He goes on:

“It isn't the individual that's responsible, but a source of hidden force, and I can't get at it without getting at everyone. If I were merely just, every night flight would mean a risk of death.”

Fabien's wife, increasingly worried when her husband does not arrive, calls at the airline office. Rivière questions himself more and more.

“To love, only to love, leads nowhere. Rivière knew a dark sense of duty, greater than that of love."

I think of the pilots on their fateful journey north of Edinburgh as a sequence of Night Flight accompanies Fabien above the storm. The passage is almost hopeful as the pilot rises into clear skies. But we know there is not enough fuel. The plunge into oblivion is not recorded, but it is certain. I imagine final moments, fictional and real.

And I think of those on the ground. For our fictional character, Rivière, duty outweighs comfort, affection and even individual happiness. His burden is to keep the service functioning despite the risks. The book concludes:

“Rivière went back to his own work, and as he passed, the clerks, cowed under his stern eyes, hurried about their tasks.” Rivière, the conqueror, bearing the heavy burden of victory.

That makes uncomfortable reading and I think that Saint-Exupéry is asking important questions about what progress costs, and who pays for it.

These questions resonate particularly because of the companion volume in my late friend's collection. The novel's lost airman and the two pilots in the Firth of Forth were separated by decades and circumstance, but united by a common sense of duty. We rarely think about the people who carry our letters, parcels and books from one place to another. Night Flight is a reminder that, in aviation's pioneering years especially, such connections were sometimes forged at tremendous cost. And the water and aviation fuel stained book is testament that risks continue and also come at enormous price.

My friend felt moved to write a letter to a local newspaper in recognition of the two pilots. He also remarked how we tend to take everyday matters such as mail arriving for granted, barely giving a thought to those who made it happen.

He concluded his newspaper letter by noting that the Royal Mail's letter to him and the newspaper report on the incident will remain forever enclosed in the book as a tribute to the two pilots who died in the course of duty.

I am now the custodian of the book and its enclosures. Each time I handle it, I will think of those courageous pilots and hold the book in appreciation of their endeavours.

Three men on an island - James MacIntyre

2025-12-18T11:07:00.004+00:00

Really enjoyed this memoir from the reserved shelves of Libraries NI. An account of three artists, George Campbell, Gerard Dillon and James MacIntyre spending the summer of 1951 on the Island of Inishlacken on the western coast of Ireland across from Roundstone, County Galway. James was the youngest of the three and the author of the memoir. Gerard died in 1971, George in 1979 and James in 2015.

What I liked about this memoir was the sense of comradeship and adventure back in the early 1950s. The stories of the artistic community in Belfast of the time and the familiar (to me) places mentioned all combined to keep me turning the pages. There are delightful pen portraits of the characters and islanders. The observations on the work of artists developing their style were fascinating.

I went in search of this book having heard about it through the publicity for an event in the FE McWilliam Gallery in Banbridge. Back in November 2025 the Friends of the Gallery hosted an artist talk by Rosie McGurran on the Inislacken Project in County Galway. Sadly I didn't make it to that and went in search of the book. The local library worked the magic!

Published by The Blackstaff Press, Belfast in 1996 it is handsomely produced with dozens of line drawings, colour reproductions and photographs on high quality paper - a pleasure to hold.

I've rated it highly as I often do for books that I would like to read again and would like to have on my shelves at home. I have noticed that it fetches a high price from resellers online. I suppose that's the way of art and artists. They scratch out living, selling their work to buy materials and their next meal. Then when they leave us their work attracts a posthumous fortune.

I am delighted that the author recorded that summer and gave us a chance to share in that memory.

A delight.

Details:

Title: Three Men on an Island

Author: James MacIntyre

Published: The Blackstaff Press, Belfast 1996

ISBN: 0-85640-582-5

Sea Skin - Niamh Seana Meehan at The Mac Belfast

2025-11-12T22:48:00.004+00:00

Visited this exhibition at TheMacBelfast today. Okay the sound was off but that didn't detract from a wonderful deepdive into the sea bed. I'll be back to experience it again. It's on to January.

Why?

The dark is inviting. The colours stand out. I didn't touch but Oh... how I wished to roll in that seaweed texture. Wonderful!

The textures, the colours, the shapes, the fabrics. The creative process.

Do yourself a favour. If you are near this immerse yourself and

Let flow!

November 2025 Reads

2025-11-03T23:21:00.003+00:00

Four reads for November. Not weighty tomes this time but already sure that there will be plenty of stimulating content.

Fiction: Breaking Point by Edel COFFEY

Non-fiction: Women and Power, a manifesto by Mary BEARD

French literature: L'Heure Exquise by Dominique BARBÉRIS

Poetry and Drama: Red Velvet by Lolita CHAKRABARTI

I've set myself a new goal of reading a lot more non-fiction - a genre that will include essays, biographies and commentaries. Add to that a work of fiction each month as well as a French text and some poetry/drama.

We'll see how that develops.

The Red-Haired Woman : Orhan PAMUK

2025-10-23T23:03:00.002+01:00

Managed to squeeze-in-a-read on our trip in Turkey. How appropriate that it should be Orhan PAMUK's The Red-Haired Woman. I thoroughly enjoyed this story which reprised aspects of the Oedipus myth - the interplay of tensions between fathers and sons. The context of the novel is well-digging in a small town on the outskirts of Istanbul. The red-haired woman is a member of a travelling troup of actors who visit the town. She becomes the object of our narrator's attention. There is a connection with the father.

A terrible accident occurs and there follows decades of repressed guilt... and an unexpected denouement.

The story definitely kept my interest and the final pages definitely caught me off guard. Reading those I simply had to go back and restart the novel. Really? Check it out - you'll get my drift.

It was fascinating to read a novel in situ - travelling through parts of Istanbul mentioned in the story. I finished it while there but I didn't take the book home with me, passing it on to to a fellow traveller who would be staying longer in the city. I wonder did he manage to finish it. Leave it there?

Before parting with the book I scribbled my email address inside the back cover.

I wonder where it is now.

A book set adrift - a bottle in a literary sea. Thousands of miles away.

Will its ripples reach back?

The Lost Bookshop - Evie Woods

2025-10-23T22:56:00.003+01:00

Wasn't able to make this event - abroad on travels - but have read the book which I much enjoyed.

Anyone out there attend? Reaction?

What a great idea.

The logo at Ephesus

2025-10-19T00:01:00.045+01:00

The guide asked us to stop in front of this stone fragment on our visit to Ephesus in Turkey.

"What does it remind you of?" she asked.

Not being that sporty I didn't see the connection immediately.

But now, I cannot not see it.

According to the guide it was the inspiration for a widely recognised logo.

Do you see it?

It is an image of the Greek winged goddess Nike. She symbolises victory not just in wars but in more peaceful pursuits such as games and athletics. She is renowned for her speed and strength.

I guess the resulting stylised logo ticked all the right boxes.

October 2025 Reads

2025-10-01T00:25:00.002+01:00

I am planning to read these four books this month.

My Name Is Red. Orhan PAMUK

The heftiest by far is Orhan PAMUK's My Name Is Red published in 2001 by Faber&Faber. We are holidaying in Turkey soon and as I like to read literature from the country I am visiting I thought this would hit the spot. Mind you, I'll have to be mindful of baggage allowances and so perhaps an e-version or audiobook might be more practical for carrying around.

Here's some info on the book from Faber&Faber

This train is for. Bernie McGill

It's Book Week NI later this month and local writer Bernie McGill will be sharing some readings and reflections at Suffolk Library where I attend a monthly reading group. I've already started this one having picked it up at the library last week. The book, a collection of short stories, was published by No Alibis Press in 2022. Here's some details from the publisher and information from the author herself here.

There are plenty of events on for book week so why not check out librariesni.org.uk for details?

No et moi. Delphine de VIGAN

This is my French read for October. It has been selected for discussion by our French circle. It was chosen because a previous meeting had considered the author's Les Enfants Sont Rois which generated plenty of comments. No et moi has been translated into English, is offered as an audiobook and has been made into a film. I tend to read my French titles as ebooks. The reader offers the possibility of immediate translation and as often as not I find I have to look up clarifications of geographical or historical references.
Here are some details from Goodreads.

and finally

Written on the body. Jeanette Winterson

Carrying on the library connection this is one I ordered a while back and which has eventually arrived. I had read a review of it some time ago and felt I had to read it. The author is one of my heroes - I follow her pieces on Substack which I find challenging. A way with words!

Check out some information on the title from Penguin here.

Looking forward to getting lost in these pages.

Happy reading!

September 2025 Reading. Scheduling my TBR stack

2025-09-01T00:14:00.000+01:00

The plan has been a while in the making. It is to address my ToBeRead (TBR) stack which gets bigger by the week. Have you a similar pile? You know, the one that sits on a shelf or at the side of your bed. Yes that one! You pass a bookshop and something new catches your eye. Okay then, let's get that. Or you've been to a book launch, met the author and because it was a free event (maybe with a glass of wine) you felt it was just downright rude not to buy a copy of their latest. Don't even think of the book programmes on TV and Radio when listening in inevitably leads to another purchase.

So yes, I welcome all those opportunities for the new but feel the need to balance the flow and make room for them. The way I'm doing that is through a reading planner. I'll share this on another post but essentially I have created a specific calendar on my phone to schedule a month's reading in advance.

What's the saying? Those who fail to plan are planning to fail.

Some of the books I list in this post have, not for the first time, made it to the top of the pile but by sharing my intention to read them this month I hold myself accountable and trust that any readers who happen upon this post will call me out if I don't meet the challenge.

So here's the plan for the six books I'm going to read this September:

The Life Impossible by Matt Haig. It's our Library Reading Group's assigned read. We meet to discuss on the last Thursday of each month. So that's a pre-fixed, no fail deadline.

44 Poems On Being with Each Other from Pádraig ÓTuama. I've already dipped into this one as I finished his collection of Kitchen Hymns which I loved. I had the pleasure of meeting Pádraig back in February when he shared his poems with us at Belfast's Crescent Arts Centre. And I listen in regularly to his podcast, Poetry Unbound from the OnBeing Studios. Do check it out! Worth a listen.

Les Kangourous by Dominique Barbéris. I'm a keen Francophile and run another blog over at francofiled.org - come say bonjour ! - And so as to keep up my French I read texts in the language. These days it's getting harder and I have to stop reading to look up meanings, references and definitions. I confess that I usually use an e-reader. Not only do I get an instant translation with a touch or two but I can also highlight and add new words to my vocabulary builder. This book though is a hard copy, paper version. I love the scent and feel of paper. I've read another book by Dominique Barbéris - A Sunday in Ville d'Avray which I adored. It boasts a bookplate signed by the author. I was so taken with it that I also bought a hard copy in the original French. Looking forward to this one.

Two Summers by Glenn Patterson. Glenn is a regular contributor to local book readings and launches. I read his Where are we Now? a while back and enjoyed it immensely. He tells a good story. I'm interested in the structure of this one as apparently it's two good stories in one book. The blurb promises: Two boys, two cities and two summers. Another attraction was the endorsements from Wendy Erskine, Roddy Doyle and Will Self. Better crack on with it then. Actually it's first on the planner for this September.

Beowulf by Seamus Heaney. Hands up - I've little knowledge of this and it is one of the books that has made a recurring journey to the TBR stack. Time to put that right. I have a shelf full of the great poet's works and often lose myself in the various collections. Why now with Beowulf? I've spotted it a few times recently. Surfacing? Perhaps the old adage provides an answer, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.

The School for Scandal by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. I remember studying this at school and our teacher really brought it to life. I enjoy plays with witty dialogue and this one has that in abundance. This edition dates from 1964 and is in remarkably good condition - only minor scuffs and of course the odd naive annotation from my younger self. It's also short and is scheduled for the end of the month.

So there we are. Six for September.

Just to really push the accountability thing - I'm also going to add a comment or two in footnotes to this post so that I can record my reactions to what I have read.

Come on TBR - let's go!

Montaigne : Stefan Zweig. Pushkin Press

2025-08-29T23:36:00.002+01:00

Title: Montaigne

Author: Stefan Zweig. Translation and Introduction by Will Stone

Published: Pushkin Press / Kindle 2015

First published 1941

I regret to say that I had not previously read anything by Stefan ZWEIG (1881-1942). However, I was intrigued to follow up on a recommendation to read this small volume on Montaigne, whose lifestyle and essay writing I have long found fascinating.

What struck me most in this short biography is the overlap with Zweig's own situation in fleeing the Nazi onslaught of the 20th century to Montaigne's position as a renaissance philosopher and essayist amid societal upheaval at the end of the 16th century. There are clear resonances with our modern world and I found myself on several occasions marking material that could apply just as much to today as it did in those earlier periods.

There is a substantial introduction to the book by Will Stone who translated the original and in his observations there was also much to highlight and think about. In essence then, this is a short book, that took only a couple of hours to read but whose lessons persist in the memory.

I noted some and think they bear close attention as the issues examined are of recurring concern.

Here is one on Rattling chains:

"It seemed to our generation that Montaigne was simply rattling chains we thought long since broken and we could never imagine that in fact Fate had reforged them for us, far crueller and stronger than ever before". (p40)

Another on Essential Values:

"For one of life's mysterious laws shows that we only notice the authentic and essential values when it's too late". (p40)

And on Freedom:

"The true essence of freedom is that it can never restrict the freedom of another". (p109)

I thought about Zweig and Montaigne earlier this evening when I listened to a discussion between two politicians. One of them was espousing older, time-honoured values of humanity, rights and freedoms while the other insisted that times had changed and those values were no longer relevant to the modern world. I have to say that I instinctively recoiled when I heard the latter. I read once that you only really know what your values are when they are offended so I will need to explore that recoil to better understand it. But I find it fascinating that Zweig in his time of peril found comfort and direction in Montaigne's essays from 300 years earlier.

The lesson seems to be that we should be open to those human values and not to shrink into ourselves as

"the more we reduce our space, the more petty concerns prey on us". (p122)

The short book is full of such mind-expanding thoughts. However, I want to close with this one from three centuries ago that I have chosen as an antidote to the swirls of negativity, fear and doom mongering that I increasingly sense all around:

"My life has been full of terrible misfortunes, most of which have never happened."

Michel de Montaigne

Check out this Wikipedia article on Stefan ZWEIG

Closed opening: Kraków near Museum of Contemporary Art

2025-04-27T15:30:00.002+01:00

In Kraków for a short break we had been making our way to the Oskar Schindler factory which sits alongside the Museum of Contemporary Art.

We chanced upon this painted doorway which certainly catches attention. I knew as soon as I saw it that it would pass the test for inclusion in my photo collection of Closed Openings.

No descriptive words for this one.

Just look at it. Observe. Anything come to mind?

Balanced stone stack

2025-04-02T19:30:00.026+01:00

Walking a beach today, we came across a group of stones balanced on top of each other. Not a natural formation and clearly someone had found the time to engage in creative effort. How much time? How much effort?

No doubt it was a meditation of sorts. Picking the right stones and shells to lend structure and support.

The stack looked as if it would topple over at the slightest touch but no…it resisted the incoming waves that washed and frothed around.

I stepped into the foam to get a close-up picture. I thought of other times; childhood, when armed with buckets and spades we sculpted with sand. This seemed the product of maturer effort - a rock castle and moat.

Later we watched as a small flock of turnstones flew down, plumage the colour of the foreshore, and got busy living up to their appellation, flicking over pebbles in search of food. Did the stack look out of place to the birds? Upset their larder?

Not a bit of it, they took it in their glide.

A small stone stack, kinder to the environment than litter or graffiti.

A vintage bottle surfaces

2025-03-30T18:18:00.001+01:00

It may have been the light from a sunny day at the beach because a glint of something caught my eye and made me pay attention. Glass. I stooped to look closer and picked up a bottle.

Had it been just discarded or washed up? It looked as if it had been buried, brown caked-on sand around its neck, still stoppered.

I could feel the embossment on the body and dusting it down could read the details:

REGISTERED. WJ. BRIGGS. BELFAST and signed WJ.Briggs. But what did it contain?

Holding it up to the light I peered inside hoping to find a roll of paper - a message in a bottle maybe. No such luck, it was quite empty. No hint of or even a trace of whatever liquid it once contained. One thing was sure, it was a glass bottle, dulled by abrasion but clearly vintage.

This would-be beachcomber wanted to learn as much as possible about it.

Questions surfaced. Why was the bottle here? How come? What was nearby? Who left it, an adult or a child? Does the Briggs company still exist? Where was it?

Standing on a shoreline answers to those questions would not be immediately forthcoming and so I took a picture - the one above and returned the bottle to its finding place, tucked in safely so that it wouldn’t cause injury to a child or animal. I’ve used online reverse image searches before and figured that using that technique when I got home might satisfy some of my curiosities. Sharing the picture later, a close family member with a specialist interest in old glass and object biographies berated my decision, “Oh you should have brought it home for me!!!” followed not long after with we’ll have to go back and get it. Well, we could do. More on that later.

The reverse image search, turned up loads of stuff. Who knew? Bottles like this one are indeed vintage. Some even attract good prices on online sales sites. My find appeared to be in better condition than several others I viewed. Helpfully some of the online vendors had done their own research and provided supporting details for their sale items. The Briggs family it transpires were manufacturers of aerated waters and were based in Belfast’s Pine Street from the mid-1880s to the early 1900s. The business appears to have developed through the family line and changed name in the 1970s. My bottle appears to date back to around 1910.

That’s something. How has it managed to survive intact for over 100 years? I think of the history through which it has endured; the bubbled memories of lifetimes though which it has remained hidden.

How has it surfaced? Lara Maiklem in her wonderful book, A Field Guide to Larking (Bloomsbury, 2021) explains in a section titled, The Best Time To Beachlark, that high winds and rough seas can cause movements of sand and drag up hidden objects from the sea floor. We have had plenty of storms and rough seas over the past year so that indeed could be the reason the bottle has found a new hiding place.

Could I recover it? I think so. You see poor substitute as it was for the vintage bottle the photo has at least a modern attribute. Geotagging. When I took the picture on my phone I hadn’t realised it added other data such as latitude and longtitude. So when I click on the information button that accompanies the photo it pulls up a map of where the image was taken.

Spot on! Yes, that’s exactly the place. So next time there I’ll go beachlarking, phone in hand and hope that it’s still there. I would hate to see it on an online auction site.

And I’m also thinking that I’ll bring my own well-stoppered bottle with a note inside to cast on an outgoing tide.

On the proximity of trains

2025-03-14T23:31:00.039+00:00

A railway line runs close to the rear of our home. Local and express trains including the hourly ones serving the Belfast/Dublin route hurtle past every fifteen minutes and apart from the occasional sustained warning blast of an air horn we don’t pay them much attention. Visitors to our home are taken aback: “Does that noise not bother you?” It doesn’t. It is simply part of the soundscape of where we live; something we are used to.

Our paternal family has close connection with the railway. Granda Christy was a driver on a steam locomotive for the London, Midland and Scottish Railway (LMS) which also operated in Northern Ireland. A story is told of him stopping his engine on the Antrim Coast as he felt that the sound coming back to him from up ahead was not quite right. His intuitive experience was correct, boulders had fallen unto the track. Catastrophe avoided. A close call.

Christy TRACEY with his steam locomotive. Photo source unknown.

Exterior sounds are one type of resonance and those inside another. When travelling by train, I love that rhythmic, clickety-clack of the wheels and that steely, acidic squeal of the rails. I often find myself internally reciting one of my all-time favourite poems, the wonderful, Night Mail by W.H. Auden which was composed to accompany a film documentary of the same name. Consider this opening verse

This is the night mail crossing the border
Bringing the cheque and the postal order
Letters from the rich, letters from the poor
The shop at the corner, the girl next door

Say it with that clickety-clack and you get that lovely onomatopoeic sound of the train wheels. Why not stop reading this now and go look it up?

Go on, there’ll be another train of thought in a minute …

Back to where we live. We have a train station nearby and two level crossings, one for pedestrians only and another for people and vehicles. Protecting the traveller clearly figures in the minds of railway managers as there are several safety notices on display. And at the station you are instructed to stand well behind the platforms vivid yellow line.

All those warnings. Best not to get too close.

Those warnings were nowhere in evidence late last year when our travels took us to Vietnam. Among many cities we visited Hanoi and near our hotel was the aptly named Train Street. Apparently it is the place to visit to experience the regular and close encounter of a huge passenger train. Thousands of people turn up. The odd barrier, no yellow lines and few if any warning lights. Instead tiny businesses of bars, restaurants and shops ply their trade within inches of the passing trains. Merchants can be seen walking across the tracks, serving their customers and sometimes pulling back tables and chairs that maybe, just maybe are a little too close. While the train is still far enough away people place bottle caps on the tracks. These are recovered flattened to wafer thin after the train has passed over them.

This short video captures the sense of proximity and let’s face it, danger.

Train Street. Quite an experience. A thousand miles away from our day-to-day living.

Try to cross while our local level-crossing barrier is closed could open you up to a hefty fine.

Railway buffet services here aren’t about to serve platform drinks shaken and stirred by huge passing locomotives. And that’s as it should be. Leave that up close rail stuff to the railway staff.

I’ll still enjoy the trains going by, listening out for those long-carriage Belfast/Dublin ones and think about who is going where. I’m sure I’ll also think back to Hanoi and Train Street.

And with each blare of the modern day air horns I know I’ll remember my grandfather, translating those klaxon sounds to mental whistle blasts from the age of steam.

The open and shut charity bookshops

2025-02-27T23:21:00.001+00:00

There are times when I feel that I have to clear out some of my books. It’s not that I no longer appreciate those that I have decided to re-home, it’s more about making more space to let in the new.

My latest dispersal included several books not on display but stored away in cupboards. It has been years since I opened them and I decided that they needed a more conscientious custodian. Use them or diffuse them! is my new guiding mantra.

Mind you, flicking through some that I had earmarked for donation, I found myself rereading. Interest renewed I decided to keep them. They live to light another day.

I wondered how much I had invested in the books and did a quick online search to check availability and current values. Even some of my pristine hard covers were only just a few £ pounds and there were loads for sale. So having decided to send the books on their way to new owners, it would be relatively simple and cheap to buy them again if I found I was missing them.

Selections made and packed into carrier bags it was off to the charity bookshop.

I had recently been to a newly opened store and spent some time discussing books and authors with the very knowledgeable vendor there. He welcomed the donation and thought many of the books would appeal to his customers. He also asked if I would complete a donation form describing the various books I was leaving. Of course: Miscellaneous titles, business and marketing, popular psychology, philosophy, leadership and some novels. That categorisation of the books was instructive, as many had been bought during my working life and now seemed less relevant in these retirement years. I was delighted that a future good home was assured and said that I would return in a couple of weeks with more books. Back home I resumed the task of clearing.

It’s a pleasure to handle books and I lost myself in the flow of thinning out their spaces. I packed up some heavyweight volumes in terms of both their poundage and content. I was sure that my new bookseller chum would be just as impressed as last time. But why had I packed so many? Clearly this new-found, guilt-free enthusiasm for parting with books had got the better of me. In my rush, I picked the wrong type of carrier bags; you know the ones with handles that dig deep?

I stopped a few times carrying the books to the charity shop only to arrive and find it closed. The times of business sign on the door confirmed that it should have been open but no - Books bite back!

What to do? Bring them home? Obviously not as that would mean stop/starting again, swapping loads and massaging fingers. Decision tome!

I knew there was a second-hand bookstore nearby where I could drop them off and although I have bought many a bargain there I was still wedded to that notion of goodwill gifting of the books. I thought of another charity shop that specialised in book sales. I had often gone there too and my donation would have the added benefit of supporting their good cause. It wasn’t far away either.

The staff member at this next bookshop was pleased to receive the carrier bags asking, as the first recipient did, whether I wanted them back. No thanks.

Have I missed the books? No, not yet.

I have though been tempted to call back into each of the shops to see if any are on their shelves and to check for how much they are selling them. My bookshelves aren’t empty however. Those freed-up spaces didn’t stay clear for long and new book tenants jostle for attention. They sit next to old inhabitants, familiar titles. Although many of these are in various states of wear and tear I couldn’t bear to part with them. Books are a bit like friends - the older, the nicer. Looking around I see instantly that some of them were pre-loved and picked up in charity bookshops. Other readers must have had their own clear-outs.

Thanks to those previous owners whose charity ends at home.

In situ reading: Power of the Powerless

2025-02-20T22:00:00.026+00:00

Preparing for our trip to the Czech Republic I purchased a copy of Vaclav Havel's Power of the Powerless with an introduction by Professor Timothy Snyder. I've made this contract with myself that wherever I go abroad I'll delve into appropriate literature from the country, get a book, bring it with me and read it when there. A cultural backcloth to the visit. In situ reading.

Close to our hotel in Prague we spotted this memorial to the Velvet Revolution and returned to picture it with the book.

Power of the Powerless is a challenging although instructive read.

Notes:

Check out the Vintage edition of the book here.

See this related Wikipedia article here.

Find the Velvet Revolution Memorial on Národní Trida in Prague

On tasting AI wine

2025-02-12T22:54:00.006+00:00

Here’s something I learned last week. Artificial Intelligence (AI) is being used to produce wine.

Really? What about the vintner? I always thought that their practised, artful skill is what wine making was all about it. Technology and machinery in the vineyard by all means but in the alchemy of turning grape to wine surely not.

There’s a first time for everything and so it was back to school for a lesson on and taste of AI-curated wine. School in this case was a wine appreciation class where a dozen of us meet each week in a local social club. Our tutor - we’ve come to look upon him as a benefactor - selects several wines he thinks we’ll like and we spend a couple of hours tasting our way through them and comparing notes and picking favourites. In a recent class many of us also sampled for the first time “orange” wine and that might be the subject of a future post.

But back to that AI curation.

CTZN - Luminous Drift is a wine blend from South Eastern Australia, apparently bottled in London. That probably means it is a “tanker” wine, imported in large containers and bottled on arrival to reduce transportation costs. AI has no doubt been deployed there to maximise efficiencies.

At 11% volume, Luminous Drift is subject to a lower duty rate than other more powerful wines. This makes it more marketable as rates for all alcohol products sold in the UK are now linked to strength. That lower volume is attractive to many people , like me, who favour lighter styles for health reasons.

Do you know what? The wine was very well-received by our group. Fresh, bright and elegant with a nice acidity that would pair well with some pasta dishes or goat’s cheese. A summer-sipper many of us felt. And most would gladly have it again.

I wonder if producing this class pleasing result is how AI played its part. It seems that curation relies on algorithms harvesting data; pressing our preferences for various grapes and styles and fermenting our likes and dislikes to finally bottle something that appeals to the widest possible number of people. The outworking of those data points results in a wine blend of 52% Pinot Grigio, 23% Sauvignon Blanc and 16% Riesling. Of course, there is a Human dimension. That final 9% is the Vintner’s craft working to achieve a balanced finish.

Serious students do homework and so a trip to the off-sales was prescribed.

Back home with the bottle I noticed a QR code on the label. Now that was clever. Scanning the code with my phone camera a robot character called SOM - short for sommelier - appeared on screen. Som’s task is to guide the purchaser through a virtual wine tasting. It would be great to screen share that with a group of friends while also sharing the contents of a bottle. CTZN also offers a couple of reds in its hard drive, so more than enough for a virtual home tasting. Maybe not for our class though.

Som was a fun character but not as yet a replacement for our wine tutor, the benefactor who each week goes shopping for wines he thinks will delight us.

As well as wine knowledge, his human algorithms factor in history, geography, experience of and anecdotes from visiting the wine lands.

Emotional and actual intelligence. Worth bottling.

PS: Please be a good CTZN and drink responsibly

Haiku on storm-tossed trees

2025-02-06T23:00:00.013+00:00

Sense? Pencil shavings.

Trees. Fallen by the wayside.

Sawdust. Pooled like blood.

The Refugee Woman and Child

2025-02-03T00:10:00.068+00:00

The beautiful church in central France where I met the Refugee Woman and Child

I wrote the following poem 50 years ago. Scalded by an experience I found that I could only express my feelings through writing it. Whatever the poem lacks in style and structure, the act of going home and penning it had a powerful effect. Powerful enough to have stayed with me for 50 years. Still vivid in my memory.

I had been at a church service in a town in France and during the ceremony a woman, clearly a refugee, head covered in a blanket and carrying an infant made her way up the aisle through the congregation reaching out her hand for money. It was a direct approach to a captive audience. I remember seeing the celebrant taking her to the side and discreetly giving her some money. She hadn’t finished just yet however and continued her path through the church, having much less success with others in attendance.

Then our eyes met.
The look in those eyes. Defiant dignity.
I felt really uncomfortable as she headed towards me.
My moment of truth…

The Refugee Woman and Child
This morning I met the mother of God
As she held out her hand to say
« Give me some money for my child in rags,
I’ve asked and been turned away »

I gave her some centimes in loose change.
Her eyes questioned, Is that enough?
And the paper money in my wallet is still there
Richly folded up

Now I think only of that young child

That we are nailing to a tree.

« What you give to the least of my brethren

Then that so you give unto Me. »

I think of that experience often, especially these days when countless more displaced people are on the move worldwide. The lack of respect in how they are treated has not improved in those 50 years. If anything it has deteriorated and the dehumanising terminology used to describe refugees does society no credit.

That child, if still with us, would be in middle age by now.

What life have they had? What legacy is theirs?

I hope that somehow, against the odds they made it.

That the mother’s love blanketed their growing up.

I hope they inherited those eyes with defiant dignity.