Poignant

I passed the Eastney Community Centre, named after someone called Frank Sorrell, just now.

It's where I saw Peter Doherty in a gorgeously small gathering in 2022. I think there were about 110 there which was great when he sells out tours of much bigger venues in an instant.

One might have thought they'd have put a preservation order and a blue plaque on it as the place where I saw Pete but, no, I expect it will be a block of flats there by next summer.

I've lifted these pictures from Facebook but will hope to replace them with a photo of my own so that it can continue the very occasional series of photos that brought to mind  poems, the poem in this case being Peter's great Far from the Madding Crowd from his lockdown album where he lamented the temporary closure of his performing spaces,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They closed down all the bars
...
Where am I 'posed to sing my song
Where the only place that I belong...

 

except they've knocked down that one for good now. 

It's probably very sentimental of me because I hardly knew the place was there before Pete's gig in it and I've not been in it again since but it does feel as if a tiny little piece of me and pop history went with it. Nowhere near as much as the devastating decision to let some dealers have all my pop vinyl for £120. That was idiotic. But gradually the past disappears behind you.

I'd better get myself to Nottingham as soon as I can before anything more I remember from the 1960's is removed or defaced but after sixty years maybe it's the difference I'm going back to see rather than the exact places and people as they were there in 1967. 

The Complete Hardy: 1. Desperate Remedies

Perhaps in the end all fiction is 'genre fiction'. Don Quixote was chivalric, albeit pastiche, The Woman in White is a detective story, The Turn of the Screw a ghost story and once one reads Desperate Remedies and finds it comes from the tradition of the lurid C19th 'sensation novel' then so are Tess, Jude and Casterbridge.

It's rarely difficult to differentiate the goodies from the baddies in Hardy and here, in the first published novel, Manston is a scoundrel in the same mould as Alec d'Urberville, lacking the capacity for self-awareness and regret that even Michael Henchard is later capable of and it's human motivations more than those of the fates that propel the drama although we are allowed a happy ending which we are to be denied in the big, mature masterpieces. 

Some Hardy set pieces are already in place with neither readers or characters always sure of their circumstances due to the absence of some characters not necessarily being due to them being dead. Hardy was not only an architect of buildings but also of storylines but the poet he first set out to be and eventually became, along with his deep knowledge of scripture and folklore all combine to make him compelling reading and if other, mostly later, prose fiction writers are more sophisticated in their art, he inevitably takes a high place among the best of them.

Owen Graye, devoted brother of the lovely Cytherea, reports to her what their father had told him,

'..don't love too blindly: blindly you will love if you love at all...Cultivate the art of renunciation.'

In his own commentary, Hardy observes that,

It is the exchange of ideas about us that we dread most;

Mr. Springrove, father of the 'good guy' suitor, Edward, tells Cytherea that Edward has,

seen too far into things- been discontented with makeshifts- thinken o' perfection in things, and then sickened that there's no such thing as perfection. 

All of those things are surely distilled, if downbeat, wisdom that form and equation with the outcome that,

'the difference between a common man and a recognised poet, is, that one has been deluded, and cured of his delusion, and the other continues deluded all his days', which is Edward ahead of his time in the mid-C19th when 'poet' could still equate to 'dreamy idealist'.

Whether Hardy ever translated any of these philosophies into his own life is doubtful but as a writer he was aware of them whatever his shortcomings outside of his fiction.

 

It was much to do with Hardy that reading took up its central position in my life and he's lost nothing in the fifty years since. Next up is The Trumpet Major as I make my way towards some sort of completeness. He is the most solidly reliable of authors and from hereon in his books will only be punctuated by others so that I don't mix them up and begin to wonder what's happened to a character from the book I was reading the previous week.

World Chess - Gukesh

Maybe even I could have won it from there and it was certainly worth ploughing on with a pawn advantage when the computer analysis was showing the draw at 99% but I would never have got myself into that position at 6.5-6.5 in a best of 14.

Ding was at a big time disadvantage but offering the exchange of rooks was clearly a brainstorm and that's precisely what Gukesh was playing on in the hope of. So, 18 years old and World Champion. There's not really much else for him to do already but he's not the best player in the world so maybe he can aim at being that.

The big drama clashed with the 12.55  from Warwick where another odds-on favourite got badly turned over.

 

I am, though, at an all-time high in three of the four disciplines at Lichess, having reached 1807 at Bullet and so it might be Classical for a long time now to try to put that at a personal best, too.