Feed the Birds Crumble – 09/11/2024

My theme is joy. Herewith, an offering.

I have been thinking about the experience of joy: how it differs from happiness, elation or wonder; how it lasts, or does not; what it is to recall the feeling or to relive it; the easy association of joy with music, with odes, choirs; its scent, unique for each of us.*

Things that have brought me joy this week include the sight of a customer’s hand, adorned by an oval ring of the most extraordinary green, held against her deep purple coat, this episode of Soul Music, handmade cards from young nieces and nephews one of which depicts my hair too accurately and one of which begins, ‘Untie Lizzie’. Oh, what a misspelling can do.

And then there have been these:  

The Proof of My Innocence by Jonathan Coe: a satire and a serious exploration of the state of British politics inside an Agatha Christie-esque crime novel inside a cartoon of false nostalgia inside a work of auto-fiction inside an argument that there is no such thing inside a less-cosy murder mystery. Also, some of the characters are really into watching Friends. I loved it.  

Family Politics by John O’Farrell: not one but two novels about politics which made me laugh even in this of all weeks. A son moves home after university and comes out to his Labour-activist parents as a Tory. It’s a great set-up. If you don’t believe me, allow me to note that the book begins with his mother taking part in a protest involving Indian Runner ducks and a miniature goat.

There is no such thing as a bad duck book. This is a theory that continually announces itself to me (vide Duck Women, among others) and this week is no different.  

The Duck Who Came for Dinner by Steve Smallman, illustrated by Joelle Dreidemy: it is a blustery day and Hotpot (a sheep), Omelette (a crocodile) and Wolf (a wolf) are trying to catch the washing as it is blown off the line. When the wind brings in an injured duck, they gladly take her in and nurse her back to health. But she is quite… energetic and keen to practise flying in the most impractical of places.

Duck’s Backyard by Ulrich Hub, illustrated by Jörg Mühle: ‘It all begins in a lonely backyard where the sun never shines. Here lives a duck with a wonky leg. She never has any visitors. She has a small supply of peanuts which she’d love to share with someone.’ And then, one day, a blind chicken arrives and persuades the duck to go on a quest to find a place they have heard of, a place where one’s secret wish will be granted… Possibly the greatest work of philosophy since The House at Pooh Corner, with just as much heart.

More duck recommendations are available. We can stretch to pigeons, penguins, geese and herons.

Murder! by Narwhal! by Alex T. Smith: giving Jonathan Coe a run for his money, this cosy crime novel has just as many twists and turns. Edna Gristle is delighted when her pet tortoise leads her to the discovery of a dead body. That sort of accomplishment is usually reserved for dog walkers. Ignatius Gristle, her horrid grandfather, has been murdered and, with the whole family stuck together in a snowstorm, Edna and her tortoise turn detective. Swans and owls feature; I am currently reading this – there may yet be ducks.

All are full of surprises. Nothing is as it seems.

Just ask Derek Jarman. Or rather, consult his extraordinary poetry book A Finger in the Fishes Mouth.(Hard to do for the past fifty years, now available thanks to this reprint. Apostrophes are abhorred). Facsimiles from his postcard collection are printed alongside poems illuminating the images. At the Madrid Palace Hotel, the wind sweeps away a newspaper and with it kings, countries and a presidential election. Of its own accord, a pen is tracing a Hogarthian beauty. Death comes through mirrors. The mirrored cover of the book itself is having fun lying to you.

Uncovering lies, revealing corruption, and having rather a good time doing it, Claud Cockburn was the founder of The Week, the exposer of the “Cliveden Set” and wager of journalistic warfare. In Believe Nothing Until it is Officially Denied: Claud Cockburn and the Invention of Guerrilla Journalism, Patrick Cockburn delves into his father’s life, a charismatic man who worked unfailingly hard and with great flair.

To end with pure joy, The Platonic Form of Joy: The Position of Spoons by Deborah Levy. And one cannot sully such a thing by attempting explanation. She writes of Duras, Colette, Ballard. She writes of her first pair of brothel creepers, worn sockless. She writes that, “Life is only worth living because we hope it will get better and we’ll all get home safely. If we were to measure the love of mothers for their children with coffee spoons, there would never be enough spoons for that kind of love.”

May your weekend bring you perfectly positioned spoons, held out for another or waiting beside coffee and crumble,
Lizzie

*Since you ask, for me, an apple crumble, waiting in the cooling oven, the fruit juices bubbling through the topping and browning the edge of an ageing ceramic bowl. It is a Sunday afternoon and no pudding will be served until the plates are cleared from the table though the gravy boat remains. The threat of a walk in the November drizzle is diminishing. The oven door is opened. The scent escapes.

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