“Monstrously conventional: Caroline Blackwood's republished tale of suburban horror” by Muireann Maguire (TLS)

A brilliant review on suburban horror written by a (sadly) forgotten writer, Caroline Blackwood, whose fate reminds me of another smart and witty (yet unhappy) not-exactly-siren, Maeve Brennan.

Sincerest congratulations to Muireann Maguire who’s done a fantastic job!

Recently republished by Virago, with an illuminating foreword by Camilla Grudova, Caroline Blackwood’s The Fate of Mary Rose (1981) is a forgotten classic about suburban monstrosity. Too often remembered as a socialite and a siren, or for her succession of gifted husbands (including the artist Lucian Freud, the composer Israel Citkowitz and the poet Robert Lowell), Blackwood was an author of considerable talent: here she writes with both gothic verve and psychological precision. ©

Дорогие израильские друзья, скорблю вместе с вами.

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.6 “That one rainy day” (photos)

And as per usual several illustrations to the previous post:

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.6 “That one rainy day”

Today Cromer turned into its usual misty northern self, with intermittent (quite lengthy) drizzles and fog, but we weren’t disappointed (we actually cannot be disappointed by anything, while staying here). So, our previous plan to walk to Overstrand during low tide was altered, and we strolled around the town instead.

First, “Bookworms”; nothing has changed since our last visit: it was quiet and empty inside, with a (usually) contemplative owner, who was meditating in the tiny room behind, listening to his beloved Classic FM (it was Mahler today). I bought di Lampedusa’s Leopard (my memory about Visconti’s classic is quite vague, although you’re not supposed to confess such wrongdoing, as your highbrow friends would laugh at you… or maybe not), Gormenghast (L. has been mentioning Peake for eternity, so there) and one of the relatively vintage Rupert books (the newer ones, albeit masterfully executed, are lacking that awkward charm of the earlier series). A book combo somehow makes perfect sense to me.

Кромерские tutti quanti: P.5 “’Cromer sunset”

Winter Cromer has one of the best sunsets, no doubt about it.

«Носферату»: итоги

Борат 2.0 с элементами всех плохо сделанных готик-RPG, вместе взятых (это когда разработчики вместо того, чтобы довести игру до ума, срутся в твиттере или реддите), кровь, говно и муравьи (то есть, крысы), выдаваемые за фолк-хоррор, метаироническая вампука, в которой «он пугает, а нам не страшно». Очень жалею потраченных на стрим фунтов.

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Snowdrops-2025

It was a hassle to catch up with the snowdrops this year (they emerged two or so weeks ago), as the weather has been particularly ghastly this winter—idiotically warm, bleak, sunless and damp. But today I finally got a chance to take a few pics, and here they are.

Reading about the last Poe’s wanderings around (as if Highsmith was personally invested in this sorrowful story), I was reminded of Hart Crane’s “Forgetfulness”:

Forgetfulness is like a song

That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.

Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,

Outspread and motionless, —

A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.

Forgetfulness is rain at night,

Or an old house in a forest, — or a child.

Forgetfulness is white, — white as a blasted tree,

And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,

Or bury the Gods.

I can remember much forgetfulness. ©

And here’s Highsmith’s description of Poe’s last days:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
You can have a slice of cake
For whatever reason or even without one

“Pomes Penyeach” in Cambridge

L. gifted me a rare copy of Joyce’s Pomes Penyeach (1942 edition): Joyce’s attempt to create neologisms wasn’t exactly appreciated at the time (and was initially rejected by Ezra Pound), yet it still works in odd and enchanting ways.

Rosefrail and fair—yet frailest

A wonder wild

In gentle eyes thou veilest,

My blueveined child. ©