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Episode image is a detail of a photograph taken by Charles Adrian.
Musing on quarantines and a lack of editorial rigour, Charles Adrian talks about books that he was given by David Duchin, Cat James and Gloria Sanders during the 15th, 16th and 17th Page Ones.
Correction: When Charles Adrian talks about “the 49 Steps”, he is, of course, referring to John Buchan’s novel The 39 Steps.
Another book by Robert Louis Stevenson, Travels With A Donkey In The Cévennes, is discussed in Page One 118 and Page One 189.
Books discussed here are previously discussed in Page One 15, Page One 16 and Page One 17.
A transcript of this episode is below.
Episode recorded: 20th March, 2020.
Episode released: 5th May, 2020.
Book listing:
Byzantium Endures by Michael Moorcock (Page One 15)
Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson (Page One 16)
The Essays of Emerson by Ralph Waldo Emerson (Page One 17)
Links:
Episode transcript:
Jingle
You're listening to Page One, the book podcast.
Charles Adrian
Hello and welcome to the 159th Page One. I'm Charles Adrian and this is the 3rd Page One In Review, in which I'm going through all of the books that I've been given over the last eight years of doing this podcast and just talking about them. It's... Today it's the 20th of March, 2020. I'm not going to be able to keep up doing an episode a day but so far these... the first three episodes have been recorded on consecutive days.
Again, nothing much has changed since I recorded the last episode. The government is still not imposing quarantine on us. Today, I think I read that the government is saying that cafes and bars and restaurants and so on should stay open as long as nobody actually goes there. I think that was the... that was the instruction so... I'm not quite sure. It's relying on us not to gather, essentially. But... but the gathering places themselves are still to stay open and... and serve food and drink and so on. I... It's a bit confusing but I... you know, I don't pretend to understand the science and the modelling and so on.
What occurred to me this morning, though, as I was scrolling through Twitter... I don't know, one part of my brain must have been elsewhere... because I was doing a little mental arithmetic. I haven't... I haven't sat down and properly worked this out but I think there... I haven't even looked it up actually... I think there were a hundred and thirty Second Hand Book Factories and the Second Hand Book Factory episodes are the ones in which I talk to a guest and I give them a book and they give me a book. Not all of my guests did give me a book but some of my guests gave me more than one book. So it might come out that, in the end, we have about a hundred and thirty books to talk about - I think it'll be a little bit less than that. But, in any case, if I'm doing three books an episode and it's a hundred and thirty books, that's something over forty episodes that I have to record.
And what occurred to me as I was sitting at my computer this morning was that “somewhere around forty”... if you express that in French, you would say “une quarantaine”. And ‘une quarantaine’, of course, is the root of our English word ‘quarantine’. So these Page One In Review episodes, these POIRs, as I'm calling them, could be described as my quarantine. So even though there... there is no officially mandated quarantine, I'm imposing this on myself, as a practice, perhaps. Who knows how it will come to feel and whether or not I will continue to do this.... as I say, I don't think daily. I think daily is unrealistic. But I'm... you know, I am in a good mood at the moment and that will probably change as the social isolation that I'm imposing on myself stretches out.
[page turning]
The first book that I wanted to talk about today - it's the... it's... you know, it's not... I'm not choosing them at whim, it is the next one on the... on the shelf - was given to me by David Duchin during the 15th Page One, which was recorded in Hackney at the Wilton Way Cafe. This is Byzantium Endures by Michael Moorcock. And, like so many of the books that I was given towards the beginning of the podcast in 2012, I don't remember very much about it at all.
I do remember reading it. I remember something of the feeling that the book gave me. I think it was quite dense. It was... It's a... It's a book... It pretends to be a true account. The author writes an introduction in which he describes meeting, I think, the main character, who tells him about his life. It's a very... It's a wonderful conceit, isn't it. It's a traditional, kind of, novelist's conceit. But I think the... I have the feeling that there is quite a lot of history in this book - and a lot of things that I didn't know about. It's set towards the beginning of the twentieth century in Eastern Europe - so Russia, Lithuania, Poland, Ukraine... those are... those would be the... would be the modern territories. And it's a... it's about, you know, the movement of people.
This main character whose name... So there's a map, which is rather wonderful, in the front, which has lots of very exciting places on it. And then a dramatis personae, which is two full pages. And then, underneath that, even a list of other characters - and it says “Other characters include” and then a list so that's not even an exhaustive list. Other characters include... Josef Stalin, I see. He appears. And Lenin. Ah interesting! H. G. Wells is one of the characters in here. Right. Anyway. I don't remember that at all. So the main character seems to be called Maxim Arturovitch Pyatinsk... Pyatnitski, sorry, Pyatnitski. And I think he's... he refers to himself as Pyat. And he's also known, apparently... it's in brackets... he's given another name: Dimitri Mit... Mitrofanovitch Khryscheff. He's the narrator. So I don't remember very much about him. I don't remember very much about what he does, except that I think he moves around.
I think... I think what we find out about is possibly the First World War and then the Russian Revolution and then the civil war that broke out between the white Russians and the red Russians. And I think that's the part that I felt like was most new to me. I didn't know anything about the civil war. So, yes, I have forgotten a lot of that but it probably is lurking somewhere inside.
What I wanted to read for you is a little description very near the end of this book - this is, I think, the first in a series of books about this character Pyat - but towards the end of this book he's in Odessa and flying a plane and it's a... it's extraordinary. I find it extraordinary to think about the kinds of planes that people were flying very early in the twentieth century - just made of cloth, essentially stretched over a frame. This is... so this is three hundred and... page 367 of 404 pages so you can see how very near the end we are of this Phoenix Paperbacks edition of... of Byzantium Endures. Let... I'll just read... It's quite a... It's quite a long section but I'll just plunge in:
Less nervous than if I had been sober, I followed him back to the lake where the Oertz was ready...
I think “him” is Petroff, in this case. I don't know who Petr... Oh, I could look him up, actually, couldn't I - who is Petroff - in the dramatis person... Oh, I won't be able to find him. So many people! Lolly! Lolly Leonovna Petroff is Kolya's cousin and Kolya is “Count NICHOLAI FEODOROVITCH PETROFF (‘Kolya’)”. Okay, so: “A Pet... Petersburg bohemian”. Then there's “ALEXEI LEONOVITCH PETROFF Her brother”. That's Lolly's brother. So there's Kolya, Lolly - her... his cousin - and Lolly's brother Alexei. So who would be known as Petroff? Possibly Kolya? I don't... I don't think it is Kolya. But anyway. So. Well. Mystery, isn't it.
Less nervous than if I had been sober, I followed him back to the lake where the Oertz was ready. Her propeller was spinning and she was pointing out at the long stretch of water. Mechanics, grateful for the breeze, held her by her tailplane and huge rear wings, as Cossacks might hold ropes on a fierce, unbroken stallion. The smell of oil was sweet. ‘You go forward,’ said Petroff. ‘Get in the front cockpit. You'll find a harness. Strap in. There's goggles and stuff, too. All you'll need.’ He was tucking a bulky object, wrapped in a piece of calico, into his jacket. I wondered if it were a bomb. I was rather uncertain of my chances of reaching the cockpit. The fuselage was only wood and fabric. But I climbed through the struts on the rocking aircraft until I managed to lower myself into the small observer's cockpit with its bucket seat and spring brackets where, in the other cockpit, the controls would be. There were binoculars fastened to the inside edge; a pistol in a holster, a map-case and a clipboard, some pencils and a pair of goggles whose rubber was frayed and hardened. Still in my kaftan, with my own Cossack pistols pressing to my hips, I settled myself and buckled on my harness, putting the goggles over my eyes. Petroff was behind me, now, signaling. The engine and propeller were, of course, making too much noise for him to bother trying to talk.
The machine suddenly moved forward at a rapid, almost maniacal, speed. It was like a bucking horse, an erratic sleigh-ride, at once exhilarating and alarming. Foul spray flew into my face. I almost drowned in it. The lake was stagnant.
The plane began to vibrate, to slew in the water, tipping to starboard. Then I saw ailerons move on the wings and we were rising over the green lake and the willows, banking steeply, and the brandy suddenly warmed my whole body, my mind and my soul. We were up, flying over the woods, the damaged house, the neglected fields; flying towards hills and the blue sea, a haze between sky and land. I saw the limans, with their abandoned resorts, glittering and shallow: columns of marching men; riders; motor vehicles; gun-tenders and artillery. This was the Release of Flying. There is no greater pleasure. Why did people bother climbing mountains when they could gain so much more from this? The air was roaring and yet at peace; it is a combination of adventure and tranquility no jet-setter will ever capture. A grey mist became the city. Odessa from the air, with her factories and her churches, her ports and railways, looked exactly as she had looked when Shura first took me there: exotic in her aura and golden in the sun; but so great was my experience of Escape that I did not care if I saw the city again for months. I was conscientious. I began to do my job. There were large groups of people on the docksides, filling the wide quays. There were few ships on the turquoise sea. There were pieces of large artillery. In the outer suburbs were guns, cavalry, infantry, but apparently few. The Reds were ill-prepared to meet Deniken. There came banging from below. For a moment the engine stopped and all I heard was the guns and the yelp of Petroff's laughter. He dropped the nose. I felt groggy. We were being fired upon. The engine started again. Flak burst around us. Shrapnel tore at our canvas. It did no real damage.
Down into smoke and yelling murder went Petroff, flying low over office buildings, hotels, flats, while I scribbled on my maps. We went over the St Nicholas steps where I had gone on my first day with Shura. We flew round and round the dome with its huge ornamental crucifix, the cliffs on one side with their gardens and trees, the fashionable Nicholas Boulevard, the sea and its ships on the other; round and round, like a toy on a stick. This was stupid and risky. Petroff was still laughing. The guns from the docks continued to fire at us. Was he daring them to shoot us down? There were clouds of smoke everywhere. Petroff fumbled open his flying jacket and took out the object he had placed there. He held it in his gloved left hand. The calico fell away from us like a dead bird. It was not a bomb he held but a large hour-glass in a marble stand. I think it was Fabergé. The marble was white with pronounced blue veins. The glass glittered. The sand was silver. Petroff stretched out his hand, then banked even more steeply towards the dome. I felt as if I were going to vomit. Guns continued to bang. I could hear them through the engine notes, as if far away.
His plane almost hit the cross. Petroff flung the hour-glass down upon the golden roof of the church. He was laughing. I could see his teeth. His goggles made black cavities in his skull. He was white, his nostrils flared. Through my binoculars I saw the object strike the dome and smash; I saw marble break to fragments. Sand scattered like money. Then we were flying down on the dockyard guns. Maniacally I began to make notes on my map. There was a sudden lurch. I looked back. Petroff had been hit by shrapnel. It had ripped his coat and exposed a bloody mass of flesh. He continued to grin. Because of his goggles, I could not read his true expression. He saluted me with his wounded arm; then the plane climbed into Odessa's blue-green sky and we were at peace. The engine cut out completely. We were drifting. Petroff called to me. I think he was delirious because he referred to me as ‘Colonel’ and spoke of ‘The Vanquisher’. His laughter became uncontrollable. He shouted ‘Goodbye’. And then re-fired the engine. Laughter and engine-note became one thing to my ears. We had started a power-dive towards the sea. I realised he intended to kill me. Something tore away from the plane. It was part of the upper forward wing, I think. Then we were spinning in silence. The engine made laughing noises. In my terror I tried to reason with Petroff. He was quite insane. His hatred of me, or of what he thought I represented, had overwhelmed his reason. I still cannot understand it. He was dead, or at least unconscious, hanging in his straps. I could not reach the controls. I released myself from my own harness and curled up. We hit the water and went through it as if we were still going through air. I began to drown. I thought my ribs were broken. I pushed myself towards the surface. Petroff and the Oertz continued to drop away below me. I could not swim properly. On a current which carried me in, I floundered, astonished, to the beach. I stood up and waded between slimy rocks. The beach sloped steeply and became grass. I had already seen a few houses. I was gasping. My ribs seemed undamaged. There was no sign of Petroff or the plane. That beautiful machine was gone forever. I do not think that they manufactured any more. My feet would not grip. I had to keep bending down to steady myself with my hands, yet I felt quite revived as, fully clothed, my pistols weighting my steps, I climbed up the beach and saw, on the faded promenade, a deserted bandstand. I had come ashore in Arcadia.
There you go. A lot of that will be mysterious... as mysterious to you as it is now to me.
[page turning]
Right. The second book that I want to talk about was given to me, I suppose, in the... was it the 16th Page One? Let me just quickly check. Yes. This was given to me by Cat James - Catriona James - and it's a book that I had when I was a child and never read. I don't know... something put me off reading it. I thought it was going to be boring or something. And it was not boring at all. It's Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. This is a Pan Books edition. A small paperback - a pocket edition really. It's priced three and six net in the UK, 60 cents in Australia, 55 cents in New Zealand - life is obviously a little bit cheaper there - 45 cents in South Africa, where life is much cheaper, and 85 cents in Canada, where people have money to spend.
Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson
Being
as it says on the back
“The adventures of David Balfour; how he was Kidnapped and Cast away; his sufferings in a Desert isle; his Journey in the West Highlands; his Acquaintance with Alan Breck Stewart and other notorious Highland Jacobites; with all that he suffered at the hands of his Uncle, Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws, falsely so-called...”
I don't remember all the... all of the details of this but I do remember that it is a romp. It's so much fun. Lots of danger, lots of uncertainty, lots of rushing through the Scottish countryside and also on ships. He's a... He's shipwrecked at some point and then, as it says on the back, he is... he suffers on a desert isle. I'm going to read that bit for you now.
This book reminded me a little bit of the... what is it? The 49 Steps? Forty-nine? Is that the number? Or eighty-nine or seventy-two. Forty-nine steps, I think, isn't it? Something about, I suppose, just rushing... rushing around Scotland and the spaces that there are there. But this part is something quite different. He's... So he's on a ship for some reason... The chapter before this is called The Loss Of The Brig. So he's on a brig with some other people and then they lose it - I can't remember how... perhaps they are dashed against the rocks - and he can't really swim. But he manages to make it alone to an islet.
So the chapter... Chapter 14 - XIV - is called The Islet. This is page 105. But I'm going to read from page... 111, I think. Oh no, I'm going to read from 110. Again, I'm going to read a fairly long section. So he's had a very bad time on this island. He's exhausted and there's not very much to eat and he doesn't have anything to drink. So he's getting weaker and weaker and he doesn't think he would be able to make it across the water to the mainland. So he's feeling very sorry for himself. He says his... er...
This state of affairs dashed me still further; and indeed my plight on that third morning was truly pitiful. My clothes were beginning to rot; my stockings in particular were quite worn through, so that my shanks went naked; my hands had grown quite soft with the continual soaking; my throat was very sore, my strength had much abated, and my heart so turned against the horrid stuff I was condemned to eat...
Oh, so he did have something to eat. I can't remember what it... Welks, maybe. Raw welks.
... that he very sight of it came near to sicken me.
And yet the worst was not yet come.
There is a pretty high rock on the north-west of Earraid [/ereɪd/]...
Earraid [/ɪəreɪd/]... Earraid [/ɪəreɪd/]? I think Earraid [/ɪəreɪd/] is the name of the islet he's on...
... Earraid [/ɪəreɪd/], which (because it had a flat top and overlooked the Sound) I was much in the habit of frequenting; not that I ever stayed in one place, save when asleep, my misery giving me no rest. Indeed, I wore myself down with continual and aimless goings and comings in the rain.
As soon, however, as the sun came out, I lay down on the top of that rock to dry myself. The comfort of the sunshine is a thing I cannot tell. It set me thinking hopefully of my deliverance, of which I had begun to despair; and I scanned the sea and the Ross with a fresh interest. On the south of my rock, a part of the island jutted out and hid the open ocean, so that a boat could thus come quite near me upon that side and I be none the wiser.
Well, all of a sudden, a coble with a brown sail and a pair of fishers aboard of it came flying around that corner of the isle, bound for Iona. I shouted out, and then fell on my knees on the rock and reached up my hands and prayed to them. They were near enough to hear - I could even see the color of their hair; and there was no doubt but they observed me, for they cried out in the Gaelic tongue, and laughed. But the boat never turned aside, and flew on, right before my eyes, for Iona.
I could not believe such wickedness, and ran along the shore from rock to rock, crying on them pitiously: even after they were out of reach of my voice, I still cried and waved to them; and when they quite gone, I thought my heart would have burst. All the time of my troubles I wept only twice. Once, when I could not reach the yard..."
I don't remember what... where the yard was.
... and now, the second time, when these fishers turned a deaf ear to my cries. But this time I wept and roared like a wicked child, tearing up the turf with my nails and grinding my face in the earth. If a wish could kill men, those two fishers would never have seen morning, and I should likely have died upon the island.
When I was a little over my anger, I must eat again, but with such loathing of the mess as I could now scarce control. Sure enough, I should have done as well too fast, for my fishes poisoned me again. I had all my first pains; my throat was so sore I could scarce swallow; I had a fit of strong shuddering, which clucked my teeth together; and there came on me that dreadful sense of illness, which we have no name for either in Scotch or English. I thought I should have died, and made my peace with God, forgiving all men, even my uncle and the fishers; and as soon as I had thus made up my mind to the worst, clearness came upon me; I observed the night was falling dry; my clothes were dried a good deal, truly; I was in a better case than ever before since I had landed on the isle; and so I got to sleep at last, with a thought of gratitude.
The next day (which was the fourth of this horrible life of mine) I found my bodily strength run very low. But the sun shone, the air was sweet, and what I managed to eat of the shell-fish agreed well with me and revived my courage.
I was scarce back on my rock (where I went always the first thing after I'd eaten) before I observed a boat coming down the Sound, with her head, as I thought, in my direction.
I began at once to hope and fear exceedingly; for I thought these men might have thought better of their cruelty and be coming back to my assistance. But another disappointment, such as yesterday's, was more than I could bear. I turned to my back, accordingly, upon the sea, and did not look again till I had counted many hundreds. The boat was still heading for the island. The next time I counted the full thousand, as slowly as I could, my heart beating so as to hurt me. And then it was out of all question. She was coming straight to Earraid!
I could no longer hold myself back but ran to the sea side and out, from one rock to another, as far as I could go. It is a marvel I was not drowned; for when I was brought to a stand at last, my legs shook under me, and my mouth was so dry, I must wet it with the sea-water before I was able to shout.
All this time the boat was coming on; and now I was able to perceive it was the same boat and the same two men as yesterday. This I knew by their hair, which the one had of a bright yellow and the other black. But now there was a third man along with them, who looked to be of a better class.
As soon as they were come within easy speech, they let down their sail and lay quiet. In spite of my supplications, they drew no nearer in, and what frightened me most of all, the new man tee-hee'd with laughter as he talked and looked at me.
Then he stood up in the boat and addressed me a long while, speaking fast and with many wavings of his hand. I told him I had no Gaelic; and at this he became very angry, and I began to suspect he thought he was talking English. Listening very close, I caught the word ‘whateffer’ several times; but all the rest was Gaelic and might have been Greek and Hebrew for me.
‘Whatever,’ said I, to show him I had caught a word.
‘Yes, yes - yes, yes,’ says he, and then he looked at the other men, as if [sic] to say, ‘I told you I spoke English,’ and began again as hard as ever in Gaelic [sic].
This time I picked out another word, ‘tide’. Then I had a flash of hope. I remembered he was always waving his hand towards the mainland of the Ross.
‘Do you mean when the tide is out -?’ I cried, and could not finish.
‘Yes, yes,’ said he. ‘Tide.’
At that I turned tail upon their boat (where my advisor had once more begun to tee-hee with laughter) leapt back the way I had come, from one stone to another, and set off running across the isle as I had never run before. In about half an hour I came out upon the shores of the creek; and, sure enough, it was shrunk into a little trickle of water, through which I dashed, not above my knees, and landed with a shout on the main island.
A sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on Earraid; which is only what they call a tidal islet, and, except in the bottom of the neaps, can be entered and left twice in every twenty-four hours, either dry-shod, or at the most by wading. Even I, who had the tide going out and in before me in the bay, and even watched for the ebbs, the better to get my shell-fish -even I (I say), if I had sat down to think, instead of raging at my fate, must have soon guessed the secret, and got free. It was no wonder the fishers had not understood me. The wonder was rather that they had ever guessed my pitiful illusion, and taken the trouble to come back. I had starved with cold and hunger on that island for close upon one hundred hours. But for the fishers, I might have left my bones there in pure folly. And even as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear, not only in past sufferings, but in my present case; being clothed like a beggar-man, scarce able to walk, and in great pain of my sore throat.
I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of both; and I believe they both get paid in the end; but the fools first.
I hope that gives you a sense of why I loved this book so much. I think Robert Louis Stevenson is... he's such an exciting writer. He has a gift of pace and language that... it... yes, it makes the adventure absolutely gripping. I could imagine being read this chapter by chapter, perhaps as a bedtime story, and... and hardly wanting to fall asleep for wanting to know what happens next. All... I mean, all sorts of things do happen in this book - and, as I say, I don't remember all of the things that happen but that's a book that I... that I'm very likely to reread. It's quite short. It's very quick. And it is a huge amount of fun. And Catriona told me during the episode that there is also a sequel to this book, after which she is named - it is called Catriona - which I haven't read. I haven't even bought it. So perhaps I will do that also one day.
[page turning]
The third book that I'm going to talk about today - and really very briefly - was given to me during the... where are we up to? The 17th Page One? Yes. Gloria Sanders gave this book to me. It is... It is a beautiful, very small, green... olive green, cloth-covered, hardback book. I don't know who published it. It's... The writing on the outside is... it's all in relief. It's not printed. It's The... It's The Essays Of Emerson. And then at the bottom there is the name of a publisher. Oh, wait, hang on, it might be just in... yes, it's just inside, isn't it. Humphrey, Oxford University Press. There you go. “London, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Copenhagen, New York, Toronto, Melbourne, Cape Town, Bombay, Calcutta, Madras, Shanghai, Peking.” That gives you a sense of when this was published. The last reprint, in fact, was 1921. So that... I assume this is when this was published.
I'm just going to read you a tiny paragraph. Well, not that tiny, but just a short paragraph. Let's be honest... Charles Adrian - [laughs] I'm talking to myself in the first person plural - I haven't read this book. I tried. I really did try to read this. And I just... I don't know, I... perhaps I don't have the concentration for it. I think, perhaps, if I had read it when I was a student, I would have really buckled down and tried very hard, but it's... it's hard work. And I'm sure it's very, very interesting. And I did enjoy what Gloria told me about what she had read from it. And perhaps I will still dip into it. I mean, some of the sentences are wonderful. I'm just finding... chapter seven here, Prudence, the first sentence is:
What right have I to write on Prudence, whereof I have little, and that of the negative sort.
Isn't that a wonderful sentence?
In the episode, in Page One 17, Gloria talks about ‘the over-soul’, and I have talked to other guests since, in other episodes, about ‘the over-soul’, knowing, obviously, very little about it, having not read any of these essays, but having a sense of what it might be. I thought I would read you a paragraph from the essay The Over-Soul, which is chapter nine in this book.
If we consider what happens in conversation, in reveries, in remorse, in times of passion, in surprises, in the instructions of dreams, wherein often we see ourselves in masquerade, - the droll disguises only magnifying and enhancing a real element, and forcing it on our distinct notice, - we shall catch many hints that will broaden and lighten into knowledge of the secret of nature. All goes to show that the soul in man is not an organ, but animates and exercises all the organs; is not a function, like the power of memory, of calculation, of comparison, but uses these as hands and feet; is not a faculty, but a light; is not the intellect or the will, but the master of the intellect and the will; is the background of our being, in which they lie - an immensity not possessed and that cannot be possessed. From within or from behind, a light shines through us upon things, and makes us aware that we are nothing, but the light is all. A man is the façade of a temple wherein in all wisdom and all good abide. What we commonly call man, - the eating, drinking, planting, counting man, - does not, as we know him, represent himself, but misrepresents himself. Him we do not respect, but the soul, whose organ he is, would he let it appear through his action, would make our knees bend. When it breathes through his intellect, it is genius; when it breathes [tripping up on the repeated θ phoneme] through his will...
Uh! I... My tongue is getting tired.
... when it breathes through his will, it is virtue; when it flows through his affection, it is love. And the blindness of the intellect begins, when it would be something of itself. The weakness of the will begins, when the individual would be something of himself. All reform aims, in some one particular, to let the soul have its way through us; in other words, to engage us to obey.
I do find that very beautifully written - the balance of the sentences is wonderful. I'm not sure that I entirely understand. There are echoes of Plato in there, aren't there? But apart from that, I d... I mean, it's... there are... I have the sense that there are some really wonderful ideas, kind of, woven into that and perhaps, yes, with a lighter mind, I might understand better what Emerson is... is writing. Ralph Waldo Emerson is his full name.
Right. That's it. Thank you so much for listening to this. I haven't, obviously, at this point, edited it, because I'm still recording it, but I have a sense that this is going to be a much longer episode than the previous two. Perhaps not much longer but significantly longer. I try to keep the Second Hand Book Factory episodes to twenty minutes and I thought that might be a good length for these as well but, so far, I haven't hit twenty minutes on any of the episodes. I'm not, I suppose, a rigorous enough editor. But... I don't know... you know, I think gentleness with oneself [laughing] is also a virtue. You may not agree. Right. In this case. You may agree in general but not having struggled through whatever this... you know, thirty minutes or more of this episode. Who knows? So I've been recording for forty-five minutes but not all of that is... is usable, you'll be relieved to hear.
Right. I'm just babbling now. I'll sign off and then either speak to you again tomorrow or whenever it is that I continue with these, my Page One In Reviews. Look after yourselves. Be well. Be cheerful, in as much as you can be. Allow yourselves not to be if you're not. And thank you for listening.
Jingle
Thank you for listening to Page One. For more information about the podcast, please go to pageonepodcast.com.
Charles Adrian
“[stumbling over many of the θ sounds] When it breathes through... When it breathes through his intellect, it is genius; when it breathes troo hi... when it breas...” Ah! [trills to loosen tongue] “When it breathes... when it breathes through his internet, it is genius... intellect [laughs]. When it breathes through his inte... [fading out] When it breathes through his intellect, it is genius; when it breathes through his will...” Uh! I... My tongue is getting tired. “When it breathes through his will, it is virtue...”
[Initial transcription by https://otter.ai]