Some Banker's do....Some do not

One of the great rewards, for me, of studying literature is the discovery of quotations from a text that resonate with, and have relevance to, modern readers.

Take, for example, the following exert from Some Do Not, the first book in Ford Madox Ford's tetralogy, Parade's End.

The central protagonist, Christopher Tietjens, is having a conversation with the head of his bank, Lord Port Sactho, about the mis-management of the former's account. An employee of the bank (Port Scatho's nephew) has been meddling with Christopher's account in an attempt to 'ruin' Christopher's reputation and steal his wife, Sylvia, away from him:

"But good God," the banker said. "That means your ruin."
"It certainly means my ruin," Tietjens said. "It was meant to."
"But," the banker said - a look of relief came into his face which had begun to assume the aspect of a broken man's - "you must have other accounts with the bank . . . a speculative one, perhaps, on which you are heavily down. . . . I don't myself attend to client's accounts, except the very huge ones, which affect the bank's policy."
"You ought to," Tietjens said. "It's the very little ones you ought to attend to, as a gentleman making his fortune out of them. [. . .]"

It would appear then, from the above, that not a lot has changed in banking policy and attitudes over the last 90 or so years.

Jacob's Room

I finished reading Virginia Woolf's experimental novel, Jacob's Room (1922), the other day and was struck by a couple of things: the connections to Mrs Dalloway (1925), and a line that features twice towards the books conclusion.

Woolf herself alluded to the book as an experiment and I think that, in many ways, it lays the foundations of narrative style found in the more successful and better known novel Mrs Dalloway. Particularly prominent is the similarity both books share in their descriptions of London, with its busy streets full of people, automobiles, and omnibuses, creating a somewhat buzzing and chaotic mood.

But of more significance is the evidence of her emerging narrative style - the 'stream of consciousness technique - that served her so well in the latter novel. In Jacob's Room the narrative flows and weaves its way through some 200 hundred characters but, unlike Mrs Dalloway, the narrator is almost always external to the characters, thus allowing for observations and conclusions about characters actions to be made, but without the internal approach that allows each character's consciousness to speak directly. What I'm alluding to, I think, is that Jacob's Room has a more intrusive and unreliable narrator than Mrs Dalloway; it doesn't flow quite as naturally between the characters' minds, thoughts, and actions.

Anyway, moving on, I was struck by the following line which appears towards the end of the novel, as Jacob's mother, Betty Flanders, tries to decide if the noise she can hear is the guns firing on the Western Front: 'she heard the dull sound, as if nocturnal women were beating great carpets.' What, if anything, is Woolf trying to convey through these words? Is Betty trying to forget about the War, and the danger her sons are in, by putting the sound down to something from everyday life? Is Woolf conveying the sounds of War through the only means available to her and all women who have not witnessed the War first hand, i.e. with feminist language? Or, is it simply a simile and I am reading too much into it!

Who knows?

Nostalgia

Recently, I submitted a piece of work in which I agreed with the generally perceived opinion that Siegfried Sassoon's autobiographical prose is imbued with a 'nostalgic' and 'melancholic' mourning for a past long lost. Sassoon laments the loss of a pre-War England that can never exist again after the devastation of the First World War.

The point seems an appropriate one to make. Britain and her inhabitants were irrevocably changed by War. Yet, this sense of loss - of nostalgia for a more innocent past - is not unique to those affected by War and makes me wonder whether it is a point worth making at all.

Surely everyone, at some point, experiences a moment of contemplation - a remembrance of things past - where they wish to be back in a time or place they inhabited at an earlier point in their life. I felt it a few days ago.

At The Thermals concert, sipping a beer at the rear of the crowd, I observed three youths (no doubt well intoxicated) dancing and jumping in time with the music, with arms around each other at the front. From my sedate position I watched their energetic appreciation of the music with a little envy. In that moment I was transposed; I remembered what it felt like when I attended concerts in years gone by, and there was sadness.

It passed quickly as these nostalgic thoughts often do (who in their right mind would seriously want a permanent return: the sweat, the hangover, the social awkwardness). It was a lament for a time gone. A time when attending concerts with friends produced an energetic release of pent up frustration (teenage angst, I suppose).

It is not a mourning for the past on a level anywhere near that of those who went through the Great War, but a mourning nonetheless. After all that, it seems a bit too obvious to draw a conclusion that the purpose of Sassoon's autobiographical writing is to mourn for a world now gone. Mental note: more insightful answers are required....

It must be added, I still very much enjoy going to concerts, and The Thermals were excellent....

The First Post

An introduction is required. My name is Stephen and I am currently reading for a Phd in English. The focus of this study is literature from the First World War and I'm particularly interested in the psychological trauma side of things. Yes, it's very cheery stuff.

Anyway, if I find out anything interesting along the way i'll be sure to post it here. And if I do, any comments are much appreciated (in advance).

So, let's begin...