What I Read & Where I Went in March 2026 - the real disgrace of England is the railway sandwich

London and Cornwall, St. Ives and Penzance and so on, is where.  I got some good Shakespearing in – The Tempest at the Wanamaker, the little candle-lit theater at the Globe, and a good walk around Shoreditch and northern London, tracking down various Shakespearean sites and monuments.  The Shakespeare Museum, built atop the excavated Curtain Theatre, surrounded, like, increasingly, everything in north London, by dubious modern high-rises, looks like it will open any minute now.

 

 

TRAVEL

The Living Stones: Cornwall (1957), Ithell Colquhon – A painter who, like many, fell in love with Cornwall, Colquhon was also a genuine mystic, attracted to Cornwall’s almost unbelievable number of magical rocks, piled up or simply set on end.  Her book is a journey around Cornwall’s weirdness, extremely interesting while I was right there, presumably somewhat less interesting at a distance.  Some especially weird setences, Colquhon writes in the British house style of the time, light, witty, deft at quick sketches of people and places.  I saw some of her paintings at the St. Ives Tate, and would like to see more.

 

SHAKESPEARE-ADJACENT

The Tragedy of Hoffman (1602), Henry Chettle – Somehow I finally wrote about this one.

The Cambridge Companion to English Renaissance Drama (1990) – Highly useful.

 

NOVELS

He Knew He Was Right (1868-9), Anthony Trollope – His longest novel, perfect for international travel.  The A-plot, or really the protagonists of the A-plot seemed a little thin from the beginning, but soon enough other plots and characters tangle their way around the central story that I did not care much.  I sometimes have to resist the modern impulse to dismiss a tragedy by thinking “This guy needs a psychotherapist,” but that this novel is actually a quite early example of that notion, pathetic rather than tragic.  And, as is usual with Trollope, mostly comic.  Look at this beauty:

We are often told in our newspapers that England is disgraced by this and by that; by the unreadiness of  our army, by the unfitness of our navy, by the irrationality of our laws, by the immobility of our prejudices, and what not; but the real disgrace of England is the railway sandwich,-- that whited sepulchre, fair enough outside, but so meagre, poor, and spiritless within, such a thing of shreds and parings, such a dab of food, telling us that the poor bone whence it was scraped had been made utterly bare before it was sent into the kitchen for the soup pot.  (Ch. XXXVII)

Crome Yellow (1921), Aldous Huxley – Now this is what I meant by post-WWI “house style”; Huxley practically invents it with this talky, digressive little sad sack of a novel.  Virginia Woolf was not quite right when she wrote that everything changed in 1910 – 1920 is more like it.  I was surprised how much Huxley imitated Thomas Love Peacock’s talky, digressive novels, like Nightmare Abbey (1818).

The Real Life of Sebastian Knight (1941), Vladimir Nabokov – In which the author, having written a Russian masterpiece, switches to English.  The narrator is writing the biography of his half-brother, a famous writer.  Many curious tricks are played.  I am reading Thomas Mann’s Doctor Faustus (1947), which given how different the books are is also weirdly similar.

The Singularity (1960), Dino Buzzati – The first third of this novella is a scientist’s journey to a mysterious research facility, devoted to shhh-it’s-a-secret.  Then the next two-thirds are – I guess skip this if you do not want to know the secret, but I now I cannot see why it matters – a good science fiction story about artificial intelligence.  Not a great one!  Minor compared to The Tartar Steppes or heaven knows The Bears’ Famous Invasion of Sicily.

Not to Disturb (1971), Muriel Spark – What  a strange book.

 

POETRY

Selected Poems (1818-48), Thomas Lovell Beddoes – Chettle’s Gothic, skeleton-filled play sent me to Lovell Beddoes.  The Carcanet collection is one-third excerpts from his crazy play Death’s Jest Book, which I should read again in full.

Selected Poems (1946-71), Salvador Espriu – A grim, mystical Catalan poet.

Archive of Desire (2025), Robin Coste Lewis – A recent poetic response to the poems and life of Constantine Cavafy.

 

IN FRENCH & PORTUGUESE

Les chants du crépuscule (1835), Victor Hugo – It was Romantic poetry month, apparently.  This particular Hugo collection is highly political for the first half, Hugo haranguing or praising a range of French figures I do not know for reasons I do not understand.  I began to worry, but thankfully the second half takes a lyrical turn, and is full of beautiful French poetry.

Folhas Caídas (1853), Almeida Garrett – Another Romantic, this little book is nothing but love lyrics, mostly pretty pathetic.  Nice to be able to read this.