1970s

The Great Victorian Collection by Brian Moore

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2021 is 100 years since the novelist Brian Moore was born – and 22 since he died – and Cathy at 746 Books is helping lead a year of celebrations in the blogging world. You can read the details of that over on her blog, including a schedule of books to read. She’s picked a good representation of his books, but the only Moore novel I had unread on my shelves was The Great Victorian Collection (1975) – this isn’t in the schedule, so I decided to read it whenever. And that time came about now.

(The only other book I’ve read by him is The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, which is extraordinarily good.)

The Great Victorian Collection features a Canadian professor with the absurd name Tony Maloney. He is staying in a fairly mediocre hotel in Carmel, California, when he has a dream. Don’t worry, dull as it is to hear the dreams of others, this is a necessary step to the plot. Tony’s dream is that he climbs out of his bedroom window and discovers a sort of Victorian fair…

I unfastened the catch of the window, opened it, climbed out on the sill, and eased myself on to a wooden outdoor staircase, which led down to the lot some twenty feet below. I began to walk along what seemed to be the central aisle of the market, an aisle dominated by a glittering crystal fountain, its columns of polished glass soaring to the height of a telegraph pole. Laid out on the stalls and in partially enclosed exhibits resembling furniture showrooms was the most astonishing collection of Victorian artefacts, objets d’art, furniture, household appliances, paintings, jewellery, scientific instruments, toys, tapestries, sculpture, handicrafts, woollen and linen samples, industrial machinery, ceramics, silverware, books, furs, men’s and women’s clothing, musical instruments, a huge telescope mounted on a pedestal, a railway locomotive, marine equipment, small arms, looms, bric-a-brac, and curiosa.

When he awakes – the fair is there, outside the window, just as he dreamed. As he explores it, he discovers it isn’t just a collection of Victoriana – it includes the foremost antiques from that era. Tony’s hobby is Victoriana, and so he recognises the various artefacts – and Moore presumably knows what he is talking about when he lists them, though it is far from my area of expertise. There are one-off chairs designed by the greatest designers of the period; there are the finest jewels and ornaments. There are even items that have long since vanished, and are only described in books – whereas others should exist only in museums. And Tony has apparently dreamed them all into existence.

Moore then takes us onto the various things that might well happen, given this bizarre premise. The strength of any fantastic novel lies in how they take us beyond surprise and into the narrative – and the best way to do that, in my opinion, is by making everything else that follows logical. So Moore is, first and foremost, berated by the hotel owner for unauthorised occupation of his yard.

When his story starts to spread, there is a kind and ambitious journalist who takes his side – partly for the exposure it might give to his own career – and there are some more sceptical ones. The debate wages about whether or not they are fakes, with a couple of academics trying to put the kybosh on it, and Tony trying to explain the idea of simultaneous originals. It’s an intriguing concept, and Moore’s exploration of the miracle’s reception rings true.

Perhaps less interesting, to me at least, is the romantic strand of the novel. Tony starts to fall in love with an enthusiastic woman who supports him, but who also has a boyfriend. Etc etc. I know the novel can’t just be a short story, and it’s useful to have a secondary plot, but I didn’t find this one had the necessary depth and vitality to let it stand next to the powerful central conceit.

The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne was such a brilliant novel that it’s hard to compare. The Great Victorian Collection certainly doesn’t have the same psychological depth, but nor is it trying to. I think it has enough originality to stand on its own merits, as long as you don’t come expecting Moore to replicate that masterpiece. It is something different, odd, quirky, curiously grounded, and – though I won’t spoil it – with an ending that perfectly fits and adjusts the tone of everything that went before.

Down the Kitchen Sink by Beverley Nichols

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The official author of my quarantine has been Beverley Nichols. Some have been great and others not-so-great – and then there’s Down the Kitchen Sink (1974), which combines high highs and – well, no lows, but definitely things I had less interest in. Its title is an homage to his famous book Down the Garden Path – and it is subtitled ‘a memoir’, but it is really only half that.

The opening is a typically Beverley concoction of nostalgia, dry wit, and whimsy:

It was an evening in early spring and underneath the Eros statue the steps were piled high with the gold of primroses and the purple of violets, which the flower-girls were selling at tuppence a bunch. In and out of the traffic, like figures in a ballet, darted the newspaper boys. selling sheets which have long since fluttered into oblivion – the Westminster Gazette, which printed on green paper and The Globe which was printed on pink; and The Star, whose pages needed no colour, for they sparkled and crackled with the brilliance of its prose. All at a penny a piece.

[…]

I strolled thoughtfully across Piccadilly Circus – (in those days, the early twenties, one could still wander about London like a gentleman, without courting the risk of instant death) – counting my blessings. They were many. I was twenty-five, and almost aggressively healthy. I was wearing a new suit in the latest fashion, with very wide trousers, which were flatteringly reflected in the plate glass windows. I was glowing with the fires of the latest thing in cocktails – the ‘Sidecar’. I had consumed it in the long bar of the Trocadero – an enchanting grotto of delight, all gold mosaics and nouveau art, which should have been painted by Sickert, but never was. And only that morning I had corrected the proofs of my first entry in Who’s Who. Not a very long entry, merely a couple of lines. But something inside me, probably the ‘Sidecar’, which was made of equal quantities of brandy, Cointreau and lemon juice, persuaded me that as the year went by, it would grow considerably longer. Which it did.

Yes, I should have been very happy, but I was not. For at home somebody was waiting for me whom I dreaded to meet.

The person whom Nichols was waiting to meet was Gaskin – the man-servant that Nichols had just installed into his small house in a backstreet of central London, which he almost convinces us was not a sign of affluence at the time. Gaskin was only a few years younger than Nichols, and recently removed from his upbringing in Norfolk to this situation. But he is entirely at ease, in a way that Nichols is not – or professes not to be, at several decades’ distance. Gaskin seems to know what is expected in the master/servant relationship, and gives subtle approval when Nichols gets it right (and censure when he gets it wrong). He is preparing the first meal – having rejected the fish at Fortnum and Mason, he has found a good fish shop down the road. The proprietor came from Norfolk. Nichols quickly learns that, wherever they go, Gaskin will find a network of people who are from Norfolk, and trusts them.

This first half of the book was lovely. Nichols talks about the wonderful meals that Gaskin has produced at different times, and writes about them with a dizzying rapture. I enjoy that when it was about paradise-like desserts, say, but there was rather too much about meat and fish for this vegetarian to enjoy reading it. No, what makes the first half of Down the Kitchen Sink so wonderful is the portrait of Gaskin. As Nichols and Gaskin spent several decades together, their relationship was one of the most long-lasting in Nichols’ life. Gaskin emerges from these pages as a wonder in the kitchen, but also a delightful mixture of competence and wonder. The way in which he inveigles a kitten into the house filled my heart with joy.

The portrait ends, alas, with Gaskin’s death. And the pages where Beverley Nichols describes discovering that Gaskin has long hidden his alcoholism are beautifully, thoughtfully written. It’s wonderfully done, and I have seldom been as moved by the testament to a friendship – which was never an equal friendship but, in Nichols’ eyes at least, no less to be treasured for that.

The second half of Down the Kitchen Sink is less enjoyable, for me. It purports to be Nichols learning to cook for himself – and I thought it might be the sort of funny, self-deprecating narrative that Nichols is so good at. There are moments of that, and understandably, because Nichols is shockingly ignorant about everything in the kitchen. But before long it becomes more of a collection of recipes. Perhaps that is what Nichols had been commissioned to do, and he twisted it away from that commission into something more enjoyable. But by the final sections, it’s just him describing recipes – with a little context, but not much more.

If I wanted to recreate any of these dishes, then it would perhaps be a delight – but the 1970s are not renowned for their culinary excellence in the UK, and Beverley Nichols doesn’t seem to have opted for vegetarian dishes for very long. I wanted humour or poignancy, not instruction.

So, very much a book of two halves. And I shan’t re-read the second half. But I feel like I may well go back to that funny, touching delight of a first half.

The Innocent and the Guilty by Sylvia Townsend Warner

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When Helen announced Sylvia Townsend Warner Reading Week, I thought I’d pick up one of the volumes of short stories I have waiting. I bought lots in an impulsive moment during my DPhil, and am now slowly working my way through them. Little did I think that Helen would also be reading The Innocent and the Guilty (1971) – you can read her thoughts on her blog.

This was the last book of short stories that Warner published that wasn’t themed – the ones that followed were about elves or about childhood. And, indeed, innocence and guilt aren’t the dominating themes of this collection – I love Helen’s idea that they are linked by the concept of escape.

Certainly that is the keynote to the most arresting story of the collection – ‘But at the Stroke of Midnight’. It is in very much the same area as Lolly Willowes – her 1920s novel about an unmarried woman who decides to stop being dependent on her brother, moving to the middle of nowhere (and, er, other things happen that I won’t spoil). In this story, though, Lucy is married – and we initially see her disappearance from the vantage of her concerned, confused, slightly helpless husband. And then the story becomes about dual identities, as well as searching for self definition.

It’s interesting that, in the approximately five decades between Lolly Willowes being published and ‘But at the Stroke of Midnight’ appearing, Warner has turned an already ambiguous escape into something even more ambiguous. There are no definite emotions, let alone a conclusive ending.

And that lack of conclusion, or perhaps lack of clarity, permeates the collection. There’s a story about drinkers meeting, and the final moments suggest (half-suggest) that one of them has a very troubled life; there is a story about a devastating flood; there is one about a widow guarding her writer-husband’s legacy. In earlier collections, Warner might have shown us a moment where they changed. She is brilliant at those tiny moments that make lasting differences – or the tiny moments that illuminate whole lives. Here, I found the tiny moments didn’t really make anything illuminated. They happened (or perhaps didn’t); they confused the reader into an impressionistic sense of what the story felt like, rather than anything imprecise about what it actually was. This reader, at least. ‘The Green Torso’, for instance, has some wonderful moments about false friendships and pride – but they are in a whirl of other elements. I finished most of the stories feeling that they hadn’t quite coalesced into one radiant beam.

I think there are two outliers, in this. The final story, ‘Oxenhope’, is gentler and more lovely than the others. And ‘Bruno’ is more confusing, more unsatisfactory – to me, that is. I didn’t know what was going on or how the people were delineated.

Warner always writes great sentences. She is a delicious stylist, and often very funny. And these stories might be right up some readers’ streets. For me, having discovered what exceptionally striking, immersive, satisfying stories she could write, in the other collections I’ve read – The Museum of Cheats and Swan on an Autumn River – these ended up being the smallest bit disappointing. And I think that’s because those other two collections rank among my favourite ever short stories.

I set a tall order for Sylvia Townsend Warner Reading Week, and it couldn’t quite be met. If this is where you start with her stories, you’ll probably appreciate the many gems and insights, and so you should. But, let me tell you, there are greater delights in store!

Albert and the Dragonettes by Rosemary Weir (25 Books in 25 Days: #22)

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Last time I did 25 Books in 25 Days, I finished off with Albert’s World Tour, so it was only fitting that I picked up Albert and the Dragonettes (1977) for a busy day this time around. I squeezed it into a few spare moments – and it’s the final of the Albert the Dragon books on my shelves (since I don’t yet have Albert the Dragon and the Centaur).

For those who don’t know, the series is about Albert – a vegetarian dragon who lives on seaweed, and wins over the mistrustful villagers thanks to a young boy called Tony. Albert is gentle and thoughtful, and only breathes fire when he gets angry. The original books have illustrations from Quentin Blake, while the later ones in the series have various imitators (successful and less so). Albert and the Dragonettes is illustrated by Gerald Rose, and I don’t love them – particularly compared to Blake’s delightful originals.

The dragonettes are the two baby dragons that Albert adopted at the end of the previous book – Alberto (Berto) and Albertina (Tina). While they’re in the title, the book is mostly about trying to persuade a sea monster to leave the cave that Albert and the dragonettes have their eye on for their new home. It’s much less episodic than the previous books, which gives it a nice overarching theme.

Look, yes, this is a children’s book – but Albert and his world is a feast of nostalgia for me, remembering how much I loved them as a child. This was a fun pick.

The Easter Parade by Richard Yates (25 Books in 25 Days #1)

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Last year I did a reading project – 25 Books in 25 Days (starting here), and I knew that I’d want to repeat it at some point in 2019. I kept looking at possible novellas to read (ideally ones with names in the title, of course), and finally decided: why am I putting it off?

And so I’ve taken the plunge today. The first of my 25 books has been read! And, as with last year, I have inspired by Madame Bibi Lophile‘s Novella A Day in May project, which is drawing to a close.

Every day, I’ll give a very quick intro to the book, where and why I got hold of it, and a quote. The posts won’t really be reviews, as they’ll almost certainly be too short for that – but let’s see how it goes!

*

Neither of the Grimes sisters would have a happy life, and looking back it always seemed that the trouble began with their parents’ divorce. That happened in 1930, when Sarah was nine years old and Emily five. Their mother, who encouraged both girls to call her ‘Pookie,’ took them out of New York to a rented house in Tenafly, New Jersey, where she thought the schools would be better and where she hoped to launch a career in suburban real estate. It didn’t work out – very few of her plans for independence ever did – and they left Tenafly after two years, but it was a memorable time for the girls.

That’s the opening paragraph of The Easter Parade, and those first words set you up for what is likely to be a melancholy read. And, yes, Emily and Sarah don’t have happy lives – but the way Yates writes the novel is so captivating that it doesn’t feel miserable. We watch as they grow up – Sarah settles into domesticity, while Emily is keen for education, career, and the right man. And she gets instead, of course, a series of wrong men – though each relationship is delineated so carefully and with such realism that we swoop through the hopes and disappointments with her each time. The Easter parade of the title is a snapshot taken at a moment when it looks like the future will be bright.

I read Revolutionary Road during my Masters and thought it was brilliant – I bought this in 2011, but had yet to read another Yates since 2009. Thank goodness I did – what a wonderful and observant writer. Perhaps it would have made more sense to read this one gradually, to join more steadily in these advancing and unfortunate lives, but it was such a page turner that I’m not sure I could have put it down for long anyway.

Off to a good start! And more on this one in the next episode of ‘Tea or Books?’

A Meaningful Life by L.J. Davis

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I was given a copy of A Meaningful Life by L.J. Davis by Frances (of Nonsuch Book) back in 2011 – I don’t even remember the context for that, but thank you Frances! We did eventually meet each other in 2015, which was lovely, but this book must have come across the Atlantic. When I was looking up which books I had waiting that would fit 1971, this one came up – and I knew it was about time that I finally read it. Though I had no idea what at all it was about.

Lowell Lake aspires to be a writer, but is actually in an uninspiring job and an uninspiring marriage. As the narrative later tells us, both he and his wife are married to the marriage more than each other – not only has love left their relatively-young relationship, but so has respect. In a masterpiece of writing a bit like the opening of Sense and Sensibility, Lowell’s wife gradually manipulates him into giving up a scholarship at Berkeley in favour of moving to New York – all while alleging that she doesn’t want to.

Their life in New York is no better. Davis’s writing is excellent, and we feel mired in this unhealthy, unhappy relationship – and stultified by Lowell’s mediocre life. Jonathan Lethem’s introduction to the NYRB Classics edition isn’t very good, but he does have one moment of brilliance where he describes Lowell as ‘chronically ill with self knowledge’. Lowell takes up writing full time, but does it largely at night – both he and his wife grimly determined that he will at least try to finish a novel. One of my favourite passages, because it rang so true, was Lowell’s response when he re-read his prose:

It read like mud. Totally by accident he had contrived to fashion a style that was both limp and dense at the same time, writing page upon page of flaccid, impenetrable description, pierced here and there by sudden, rather startling interludes of fustian and vainglory that neither adorned, advanced, nor illuminated the plot, although they did give the reader a keen insight on the kind of movies Lowell had seen as a child.

As you can see, hopefully, A Meaningful Life deals with unhappy people and a bleak situation, but it is very funny. I laughed quite a lot reading it – Davis has a turn of phrase that brings out the dark humour of a sad scene. He also judges just the right amount of surrealism to bring to the novel – and Lowell seems to have a small break down…

They spent the next couple of hours barricaded behind walls of newsprint, warily passing fresh sections back and forth as the need arose, and doing their best not to meet each other’s eyes. The last section to come before Lowell’s face was the ant ads. It was a moment before he realized what he was looking at. He wondered how it had come into his possession. Had he picked it up on purpose? Had his wife deliberatly placed it where he could reach it? Was he absolutely certain his shows were on the right feet?

This isn’t a turning point so much as one more milestone on a trek into misery. But a turning point does come, of sorts. And that’s when they decide they should buy property.

I have never come across a scene of house hunting that I didn’t enjoy – particularly in a comic novel. It provides such a rich seam of comedy. And in A Meaningful Life it is as strange as it is funny – particularly when they decide upon a rambling house that is currently occupied by seemingly dozens of people, each in their decrepit cells. It’s bizarre and dark and wonderful to read – and the rest of the novel looks at how the house affects Lowell and his marriage. It continues to be strange and funny and haunting right through to the final words – and Davis’s exceptional writing continues, perfectly judged. To pick one example, I loved the odd truth of something like this:

“My wife and I,” he began, striking an attitude, “bought our house six years ago.” He’d asked so many questions that this utterance of a simple declarative sentence sounded extremely strange, as though he’d begun to read aloud.”

I’d be intrigued to know what Davis’s other novels are like. This isn’t quite like anything else I’ve ever read. Good as it is, I don’t know how often I’d be in the mood for more of the same – but I can certainly see it happening at least once every few years. And to leave you with a word of warning: if you have the NYRB Classics edition, don’t read the blurb – at least, don’t read it to the end. It gives away something that happens in the final 15 pages. You’re better than this, NYRB!

Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow by Paul Gallico

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There are only four Mrs Harris books, but I’ve been gradually working my way through the series since 2012. Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow – known as Mrs ‘Arris Goes to Moscow in the US – is the final one of these, published in 1974, an impressive sixteen years after the first in the series.

Mrs Harris is a London char lady whose exploits started (in Flowers for Mrs Harris, or Mrs ‘Arris Goes to Paris, or indeed Mrs Harris Goes to Paris) with saving up money to buy a Dior dress in France. After that, she went to America and became an MP (in separate books, naturally). And, finally, she’s off to Moscow to reunite one of her employers with his long-lost Russian love. That’s when things start to get ridiculous.

By a series of miscommunications, mistaken identities, and misunderstandings of what ‘char lady’ could possibly mean, Mrs Harris and her friend Violet Butterfield (the wonderful Vi, who wants none of the adventures that Mrs H seems to thrive on) are believed to be spies by the KGB and believed to be aristocracy by others high up in Russia. What they actually are is two lucky women who won some sort of raffle.

I was feeling in the mood for something silly and light, and Gallico’s series is entirely reliable for that. If you liked the others, you’ll certainly like this – if you can face reading about Russian collusion in the current environment (it did feel oddly topical). I continue to be fascinated by the extraordinary range that Gallico has in his writing, from dark to frothy, poignant to funny, and (indeed) very good to not at all good. This one sits in the thoroughly-enjoyable category – completely ridiculous, but also entirely fitted the mood I was in when I picked it up.

25 Books in 25 Days: #25 Albert’s World Tour

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The end! I did it! And it was the most fun. I’ll do a bit of a round up about the experience, but first – today’s book: Albert’s World Tour (1978) by Rosemary Weir.

I suspect it’s a coincidence that it’s as the 25 days finishes, but I’ve come down with a horrible cold today – and I couldn’t face reading anything more demanding than a children’s book. Growing up, I loved the Albert the Dragon stories – or, more particularly, Further Adventures of Albert the Dragon, which is the one we read most I think. We certainly didn’t have the third, fourth, and fifth in the series – and I decided to buy them up earlier this year. Though only found the fourth and fifth cheaply – and accidentally just read the fifth (for such is Albert’s World Tour) out of order.

Albert is a vegetarian dragon who, as the series starts, is rather feared by the community – but a little boy called Tony becomes friends with him, and the villagers soon realise that Albert only sets fire to things by accident. As the books continue, he has quickly-resolved but rather lovely adventures – and in this book, they decide to fly around the world. They visit Rome, China, and generic-Africa, so job done.

What I loved (and still love) about these books is Albert’s gentle, lovable character, and Weir’s way of putting slightly awkward conversation in the mouths of dragons, unicorns, wizards, and so forth. It’s all very charming, even without the nostalgia I have for the books. And I rather suspect seaweed-eating Albert is, deep down, the reason I’m vegetarian.

So, I haven’t finished on great literature, but it certainly worked with how grotty and tired I’m feeling…

—

And the 25 Books in 25 Days project in general? I’ve loved it! It’s been surprisingly easy – I’ve been reading a bit before work, and while walking to and from the Park and Ride in Oxford (I walk for about half an hour after parking, for such is Oxford’s parking restrictions), and finding there is a lot more time for reading in the day (my day) than I usually allow.

I do recognise that only someone in my position – living alone, lots of free time – would be able to do this. Kudos to those with families and full-time jobs managing to read anything! But if you only have one or other of those, I think it’s very doable.

I deliberately didn’t plan out the books I was reading. Each night, I’d pick something for the next day that suited the sort of mood I was in – mixing up fiction and non-fiction, different periods, different genres. Similarly, I wasn’t tying it to my Century of Books intentionally – I thought it would be more fun just to see afterwards how many slots I filled, based on what I wanted to read. And it turns out that 14 of my books matched empty slots on A Century of Books – a happy bonus!

Would I do it again? Definitely – if I have enough short books left on my shelves. I had to pick a period when I didn’t have other reading demands, or an enormous amount of things going on. But maybe next year I’d give it a go. And one thing I’ve really enjoyed is writing short blog posts – perhaps not as useful a resource for my own memory, but getting my thoughts across concisely and quickly.

Anybody tempted to try a similar project??

25 Books in 25 Days: #15 Offshore

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I’m going to be doing a full review of Offshore (1979) by Penelope Fitzgerald later, for a feature at Shiny New Books, but it’s nice and short so seemed a no-brainer for 25 Books in 25 Days. I’ve read quite a few Fitzgerald novels over time, but this is the one that snared her the Booker – what would I make of it?

It’s set in London, among a community of people who live on houseboats. It has Fitzgerald’s archetypal disjointed conversations and disjointed relationships – nobody ever quite answering the question that is asked them, or doing anything in quite the way you might expect them to. This is shown at its best in a wonderfully brittle, peculiar conversation between two strangers. Here’s a little bit of it…

“Well you might turn out to be a nuisance to Edward.”

She mustn’t irritate him.

“In what way?”

“Well, I didn’t care for the way you were standing there ringing the bell. Anyway, he’s out.”

“How can you tell? You’re only just coming in yourself. Do you live here?”

“Well, in a way.”

He examined her more closely. “Your hair is quite pretty.”

It had begun to rain slightly. There seemed no reason why they should not stand here for ever.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I do remember you. My name is Hodge. Gordon Hodge.”

Nenna shook her head. “I can’t help that.”

“I have met you several times with Edward.”

“And was I a nuisance then?”

The writing is bizarre and wonderful much of the time, but I did find that I was a little too disorientated by what was going on at any time. Finding the right amount of disorientation in Fitzgerald is a fine balance – and perhaps one influenced by the mood one is in when reading. So, it’s not my favourite, and it felt a little overly-confused, but it’s still Fitzgerald and thus it’s still characterful and very good nonetheless.

25 Books in 25 Days: #13 Turtle Diary

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I first heard of Turtle Diary (1975) by Russell Hoban when looking for films made in the year I was born (the adaptation was made in 1985). I didn’t watch it in the end, but it did make me pick up the book a couple of years ago – and, of course, I couldn’t resist a lovely NYRB Classics edition.

The novel is told in alternate chapters by Neaera H and William G, two middle-aged people who are feeling rather lost. Neaera writes and illustrates children’s books and has a pet water beetle; William is feeling lonely as he tries to get used to being divorced and living in a boarding house. Both are drawn to London Zoo – particularly to the turtle enclosure. And both want to set the turtles free into the ocean.

This is exactly what happens – they get a sympathetic zookeeper on side, hire a van, and take the turtles to the ocean in Cornwall. What’s so brilliant about Hoban’s novel is that this isn’t a joyful passage of discovery, or a road trip where they learn to love each other. They both remain awkward and with their unhappinesses. The moment is not as life-changing as they think – it is not the culmination of the novel; we see the anti-climax afterwards. It is a very human story of real people, who cannot shed their disillusions, however extraordinary a moment in their lives may be.

Hoban is a fantastic writer. I enjoyed how often literary and movie references were brought in, remembered or half-remembered by the respective narrators. And he has such an observational turn of phrase and clever use of simile. Not just for the human characters but, aptly enough, for the animals – so I’ll leave you with this depiction of a sandpiper:

At the Waders Aviary a little sandpiper who would never have allowed me to come that close in real life perched on a sign a foot away from me and stared. He knew that he was safe because the wire mesh of the cage was between us. He has lost his innocence. He appeared to have lost a leg as well, and for a long time stood steadfastly on the one very slender remaining member whilst looking at me through half-closed eyes. Having kept me there for nearly half an hour he revealed a second leg that matched that other perfectly, then flew down to the sand and entertained a lady sandpiper with an elegant little dance that seemed done less for the lady than for the thing itself. He made his legs even longer and thinner than they were, drew himself up quite tall in his small way, spread his wings, wound himself up and produced a noise like a tiny paddle-wheel boat whilst flapping his wings stiffly and with formal regularity. At the same time he executed some very subtle steps almost absent-mindedly, with the air of one who could be blindingly nimble if he let himself go. The lady watched attentively. At a certain point, as if by mutual agreement that the proprieties had been observed, he stopped dancing, she stopped watching. They went their separate ways like two people at a cocktail party.