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Never thought I'd let a rumor ruin my moonlight
My poem "The Plague Hill" has been accepted by Mythic Delirium. It was originally written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
asakiyume and Colmers Hill; to the best of my knowledge, there is not a piece of historical truth to it. All hail local legend.
From Penelope Fitzgerald's The Knox Brothers (1976), a passage of whichnineweaving read me yesterday:
But the greatest influence upon Dilly was the best-loved and most eccentric of the Fellows, Walter Headlam. Headlam, one of the finest of all interpreters of Greek thought and language, was a purebred scholar, descended from scholars. In 1902 he was thirty-seven years old, and seemed to have only a frail contact with reality. Traveling was difficult because he could not take the right train, and even when on horseback he rode straight into the pond at Newham, saying doubtfully, "Do you think I ought to get off?" Letters were difficult, because Headlam chose his stamps only for the beauty of the colors. But his rooms in Gibbs Buildings were open to everyone who cared to come, and anyone who could make their way through the piles of manuscripts and bills was sure to be listened to and taught. The pupils' work was usually lost and rapidly disappeared under the mass of papers, but Headlam sat "balancing an ink-pot on one knee," as Shane Leslie described him, "and scribbling words into Greek texts, missing since the Renaissance, with the other. His famous emendations, in exquisite script, were allowed to float about the room until gathered for the Classical Review. A year later they became the prey of German editors."
Headlam taught both by night and day, for both were the same to him. His knowledge of Greek literature was enormous and consisted quite simply of knowing everything that had been written in ancient Greek, down to the obscurest Rhetoricians; he had no need for a dictionary. But Greece, to him, was not a dead civilization. He taught the Eleusinian mysteries with reference to ghost-raising and The Golden Bough, Greek obscenities were collated with Burton's Arabian Nights, he strummed on a hired piano to illustrate the music of the tragic chorus, and, draped in his own beautiful faded crimson curtains, demonstrated how they should enter. Enthusiasm, however, combined with meticulous exactness. Headlam's vast learning told him infallibly what an author could not have written, his artist's eye helped him to supply missing letters. And only here, in matters of textual criticism, a battlefield of giants in those days when reputations were lost and won and German and English scholars faced each other in mighty competition, did Headlam make enemies. Confronted with an inaccurate text, his charming, sunny temperament disappeared and was replaced by a concentration of scorn. Afterward he would be mildly surprised at the resentment of those he had called "idiotic pedants" and "illiterate amateurs"; a party had formed against him, even in King's itself. Meanwhile his own undertakings, and in particular his edition of Aeschylus, remained unfinished; his own sense of perfection made it impossible for him to finish anything.
"Does anyone here speak English? Or even ancient Greek?"
asakiyume and Colmers Hill; to the best of my knowledge, there is not a piece of historical truth to it. All hail local legend.From Penelope Fitzgerald's The Knox Brothers (1976), a passage of which
nineweaving read me yesterday:But the greatest influence upon Dilly was the best-loved and most eccentric of the Fellows, Walter Headlam. Headlam, one of the finest of all interpreters of Greek thought and language, was a purebred scholar, descended from scholars. In 1902 he was thirty-seven years old, and seemed to have only a frail contact with reality. Traveling was difficult because he could not take the right train, and even when on horseback he rode straight into the pond at Newham, saying doubtfully, "Do you think I ought to get off?" Letters were difficult, because Headlam chose his stamps only for the beauty of the colors. But his rooms in Gibbs Buildings were open to everyone who cared to come, and anyone who could make their way through the piles of manuscripts and bills was sure to be listened to and taught. The pupils' work was usually lost and rapidly disappeared under the mass of papers, but Headlam sat "balancing an ink-pot on one knee," as Shane Leslie described him, "and scribbling words into Greek texts, missing since the Renaissance, with the other. His famous emendations, in exquisite script, were allowed to float about the room until gathered for the Classical Review. A year later they became the prey of German editors."
Headlam taught both by night and day, for both were the same to him. His knowledge of Greek literature was enormous and consisted quite simply of knowing everything that had been written in ancient Greek, down to the obscurest Rhetoricians; he had no need for a dictionary. But Greece, to him, was not a dead civilization. He taught the Eleusinian mysteries with reference to ghost-raising and The Golden Bough, Greek obscenities were collated with Burton's Arabian Nights, he strummed on a hired piano to illustrate the music of the tragic chorus, and, draped in his own beautiful faded crimson curtains, demonstrated how they should enter. Enthusiasm, however, combined with meticulous exactness. Headlam's vast learning told him infallibly what an author could not have written, his artist's eye helped him to supply missing letters. And only here, in matters of textual criticism, a battlefield of giants in those days when reputations were lost and won and German and English scholars faced each other in mighty competition, did Headlam make enemies. Confronted with an inaccurate text, his charming, sunny temperament disappeared and was replaced by a concentration of scorn. Afterward he would be mildly surprised at the resentment of those he had called "idiotic pedants" and "illiterate amateurs"; a party had formed against him, even in King's itself. Meanwhile his own undertakings, and in particular his edition of Aeschylus, remained unfinished; his own sense of perfection made it impossible for him to finish anything.
"Does anyone here speak English? Or even ancient Greek?"
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Choosing stamps for their beauty I quite understand; it's why I enjoy buying stamps, and it's the one thing that makes sending off bills pleasant.
(and very very happy about the poem--it is marvelous!)
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(I wish. But I work on it.)
Choosing stamps for their beauty I quite understand; it's why I enjoy buying stamps, and it's the one thing that makes sending off bills pleasant.
For a period of time I tried to match stamps thematically to their destinations; I would send friends anything from superheroes to Sanskrit, while water and electric got lighthouses and rock formations went to the gas company. I always hoped maybe they would brighten the afternoon of someone stuck at a miserable utilities desk job, but more probably no one ever ever noticed.
(and very very happy about the poem--it is marvelous!)
(Thank you! Your photographs make good muses.)
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And thanks for this passage--he sounds an absolutely fascinating individual, like a literary character made by taking the professor I had for ancient Greek and expanding his eccentricities by a couple of orders of magnitude. There are times that I wish I were capable of being a classicist.
"Does anyone here speak English? Or even ancient Greek?"
It took me a few minutes to remember which movie this was from. Nicely chosen.
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Thank you!
There are times that I wish I were capable of being a classicist.
I'm sure you can still do Celtic and eccentric.
It took me a few minutes to remember which movie this was from. Nicely chosen.
I totally need some Denholm Elliott icons.
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Most welcome!
I'm sure you can still do Celtic and eccentric.
True, although... I'm not really a Celticist. I'll probably never have Modern Welsh, Breton, etc, and Old Irish, etc are right out--I just can't seem to get my head around any language that you learn from a book rather than by talking in it. And my faculty in the Irish Studies department... I like them, but they don't seem to tend towards the grand eccentricity that at least some Classicists can still get away with. Although perhaps that's a dying breed, even there? I certainly hope not, but I wonder.
I totally need some Denholm Elliott icons.
Those do sound like useful things to have.
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Yes, sadly; yet the breed lives on, and it's not confined to classics. My parents brought me up on stories of Leonard Boyle, who used to toss medieval documents across the room for students in his paleography class to look at; and I later met Oliver Rackham, the environmental historian, who once passed a bus trip talking to an elderly Croatian priest about local botany in the only language they had in common, and has been known to discuss the taste of donkey...
Yes, Oxford and Cambridge attract them, then as now.
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Well, that's good.
My parents brought me up on stories of Leonard Boyle, who used to toss medieval documents across the room for students in his paleography class to look at
Oh dear. I have to admit that the idea of that makes me a bit uncomfortable, however compelling it might be in person.
Oliver Rackham, the environmental historian, who once passed a bus trip talking to an elderly Croatian priest about local botany in the only language they had in common
How brilliant! Latin, I would assume?
and has been known to discuss the taste of donkey...
Interesting. I wish I could introduce some of the people I know to someone like that, as proof that my tastes for froglegs and black pudding aren't particularly offensive.
Yes, Oxford and Cambridge attract them, then as now.
That's good to know, I suppose. My girlfiend from high school went there; she was growing more conventional, for a given value (the academic version, more or less) of conventional, over the time I knew her, but perhaps they turned her round, eventually. I'd like to think so.
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I never liked how his character got downgraded in the third film. He still manages a few subversive moments of clarity.
"Water? No, never touch the stuff: Fish make love in it."
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Amen. Even if it was my introduction to Indiana Jones.
"Water? No, never touch the stuff: Fish make love in it."
*snerk*
Yes.
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And what a great passage--just last night I was reading about Penelope Fitzgerald in the latest London Review of Books.
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Thank you!
And what a great passage--just last night I was reading about Penelope Fitzgerald in the latest London Review of Books.
Oh, cool. I have never read any of her fiction: clearly I need to fix this.
He had a wonderful face, too:
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Er. Damn. This may be true. Apologies to any readers who have an account with the Oxford Biography Index and are therefore being spammed with Walter Headlam . . .
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This passage just calmed me down on a very hectic day of doing what I don't want to be doing. A few minutes of something so good really does help.
I've never heard of Penelope Fitzgerald. I'm putting her on the list for myself and a good friend who I think would love this. Thanks!
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Thank you! This week is definitely ending better than it started!
This passage just calmed me down on a very hectic day of doing what I don't want to be doing.
I am very glad to have helped. May your days become less hectic!
I'm putting her on the list for myself and a good friend who I think would love this. Thanks!
Welcome!