The Little Birds Fly

Down to the Calico Sea

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Major Dissertation Ch 2/D1/Essay - It Begins
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The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

(In a Station of the Metro - by Ezra Pound)

This was posted by me three years ago and I must admit to really missing my old class and lecturer from then.  At least I felt alive and animated, whereas now I am surly and closed off.  Take no notice - as I mentioned before, I had no sleep, then 3 hours, then woken up by post, calls and I think the world and his wife wanted my attention at midday today.  Back to chipping away until my mind goes blank.

* mumble, grumble, crumble*

Alas, it all came to nowt as Prodigal 2 announced that he needed to get to the job centre to sign on toot sweet, or we wouldn't be able to get rent out of him this week.  Just not my day.  I think it will be better if I do not edit until I am compost mental. Too dozy now to carry on, so I am taking my Kindle to bed to listen to David Suchet reading Tom Sharpe's Blott on the Landscape.  Very early night of me, but night all :-)

Posted from changling67 at Dreamwidth

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Thanks sweetheart - right back atchya :-) xx

I am a massive fan of Pound: his poetry, not his politics (which I detest). I discovered him through my love of trobar: there were footnotes in books saying that Peire Vidal and Cabestanh & c were mentioned in the Cantos. So I discovered him in my late teens. Friends of my Dad's actually said to him, "You're letting her read Pound?!" He was gobsmacked (as was I): firstly, I have always read what I wanted – there was never any issue of being "let" to read anything by my parents; and secondly, that they thought I was stupid enough to swallow Pound's Mussolini-fanboying, rather than the literature.

My parents encouraged me to read any material that came into the house, so I had a bit of a 'weird and wonderful' collection in my bookcase. I remember reading Freud extensively when I was twelve.

I had to read 'The Communist Manifesto' last year as part of the Modernist module, which inevitably lead to reading about Pound and his interest in fascism (Mussolini, Adolf Hitler et al). My lecturer at the time was quite a Pound fangirl, which I found a little odd - not so much this literature, but his politics. Worrying thought.

Her name wasn't Jean Brodie, was it?!

I find it depressing that in Italy, Fascist sympathisers have pictures of Pound on the wall because Mussolini is frowned on, not because of any love of literature. There's a café we went into in Riva (on Lake Garda) that had a poster of Pound as an old man walking in Venice, and a quotation; I had to explain to Dad that it didn't mean they were poetry lovers... It made me more than somewhat uncomfortable.

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