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Winged Chariot
My copy of Winged Chariot arrived. Although not advertised as such, it turns out to be a first edition. It's not in mint condition, but still has its dust jacket. It might even be the copy I once sold come back to me; stranger things have happened.
It is- forget the contents for a moment- a very beautiful book. I'm no expert on paper- but the paper used here is clearly of a very high quality - made from rags perhaps- with a coarse, tactile weave and an intrinsic, delicious, musky odour. I suspect- if stored in kindly conditions- it would last for a thousand years.
There is a vignette wood cut by the great Joan Hassall.
Winged Chariot was published in 1951 (the year of my birth, incidentally) by which time de la Mare- always an anomaly, and hard to place- was outrageously out of step with his times (though his publisher- and champion- at Faber was none other than T.S. Eliot). He remains unfashionable- and is remembered- if at all- for The Listeners and one or two other magical, nursery favourites- not for this.
But it's a wonderful poem- in my considered view the most beautiful poem published in the second half of the 20th century. De la Mare had a gift- an unequalled gift- for arranging words- simple, hackneyed, even shop-soiled words- the words every poetaster overuses- so that they sing in consort. Mainly he wrote lyrics. This is a sustained lyric- remorselessly lovely- otherworldly- the work of a great poet who in old age pines (to quote himself)
"to skirt the infinite;
As birds sing wildlier as it draws towards night."
It is- forget the contents for a moment- a very beautiful book. I'm no expert on paper- but the paper used here is clearly of a very high quality - made from rags perhaps- with a coarse, tactile weave and an intrinsic, delicious, musky odour. I suspect- if stored in kindly conditions- it would last for a thousand years.
There is a vignette wood cut by the great Joan Hassall.
Winged Chariot was published in 1951 (the year of my birth, incidentally) by which time de la Mare- always an anomaly, and hard to place- was outrageously out of step with his times (though his publisher- and champion- at Faber was none other than T.S. Eliot). He remains unfashionable- and is remembered- if at all- for The Listeners and one or two other magical, nursery favourites- not for this.
But it's a wonderful poem- in my considered view the most beautiful poem published in the second half of the 20th century. De la Mare had a gift- an unequalled gift- for arranging words- simple, hackneyed, even shop-soiled words- the words every poetaster overuses- so that they sing in consort. Mainly he wrote lyrics. This is a sustained lyric- remorselessly lovely- otherworldly- the work of a great poet who in old age pines (to quote himself)
"to skirt the infinite;
As birds sing wildlier as it draws towards night."
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All his anthologies- though constructed out of other people's work- are unmistakeably de la Mareian- shot through and through with his distinctive aesthetic, his distinctive charm.
Have you read any of his ghost stories? I think you'd like them. My favourite is Seaton's Aunt.
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I'm afraid you're probably right about it only making one edition.
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I like the word "wildlier".
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I'm very fond of Come Hither, and of his prose collections, Early One Morning in the Spring and Behold This Dreamer.
I forget which eminent critic (
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