The house had been emptied out owing to our temporary financial difficulties but I had written a letter to myself in which I explained that it would be easy enough to refurbish. Furniture isn’t so difficult to come by and we still had some domestic stuff, utensils and such like, salvaged from the last crisis. As we sat on the doorstep hoping the rain would hold off I read that letter and it gave me comfort as random sorts ambled by: tinkers, thimble-riggers, beggars, broom-men, university lecturers, goose relaxers . . . each attempting a smile and each achieving a variety of grimace. People are always saying we need people in our lives, but I think I could construct a decent argument to the contrary.
Thinking about the last few days I had not thought it important at the time but I suppose Yes, probably it had been a mistake to strew straw upon the floor: the babies loved to roll around in it, which was fine, but the old people gathered it up in handfuls and chewed on it with their dentures and gums until nothing was left and they thought nothing remained to live for, so they departed for the spirit world. We were almost sorry to see them go, but it doesn’t matter very much, and no doubt others will appear in due course. More could be said upon this subject but because I am a man of few words I think it’s best to be a man of few words. Also, there is nothing of any note in my notebook. I have not been writing much lately, and anything I have written I’ve torn out the pages and thrown them away. Self-criticism never did anyone any harm.
So here we are, sitting on the doorstep as unlikely folk wander by giving us looks. To pass the time we have discussed among other things the beneficial influence of poetry upon mankind and upon civilization in general, and how it’s more important to say anything in one’s work even if it’s nonsense than to sit around fretting about saying something new, because nothing is new, and the ways in which one might hold on in spite of everything to a sense of beauty, while wondering what the past thought it might have been about and what the future might mean and if it was at all likely to mean anything at all. That’s a long sentence and could be broken down into shorter ones but I have my preferences. And anyway, it is not the longest sentence I’ve ever written, and grammarians, although they may appear to be elegant of mind at times, are on the list of those with whom I choose to have no truck.
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Martin Stannard
Picture Rupert Loydell
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