Byron's references to William Turdsworth, which are contained in a
collection of his letters that are due to be auctioned by Sotheby's,
made me think two things. First, that there seems to be no form of
artistic creation that generates quite the same internecine loathing
as poetry. I don't know quite why it should be, but perhaps a
generalised sense of neglect and cultural demotion by parvenus such as
the novel and film finds release in these volcanic fumaroles against
fellow poets. Perhaps they're even more horrible about novelists and
film-makers and we simply don't get to hear about that. Second, I
thought again about that melancholy day in John Murray's parlour when
the two volumes of Byron's memoirs were ripped to shreds and burnt in
the fireplace. "Turdsworth" is the kind of juvenile joke that I doubt
any writer would want preserved for posterity, but you don't write
your memoirs with the view of them becoming nothing more than solid
fuel. That Byron's wit and energy was constrained by the watchful eye
of imagined posterity (which doesn't care about buggery but is
unforgiving of literary clumsiness) is surely something to grieve.
Turdsworth made the scar ache again.
Ah, yes, are we worthy of remembrance?
Doug
Douglas Barbour
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http://www.ualberta.ca/~dbarbour/
Latest books:
Continuations (with Sheila E Murphy)
http://www.uap.ualberta.ca/UAP.asp?LID=41&bookID=664
Wednesdays'
http://abovegroundpress.blogspot.com/2008/03/new-from-aboveground-press_10.html
Take away my wisdom and my categories!
Phyllis Webb
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