AUTUMN JOURNAL by the same author THE EARTH COMPELS OUT OF THE PICTURE POEMS AUTUMN JOURNAL a poem by LOUIS MACNEICE Faber and . 8 quotes from Autumn Journal: ‘September has come, it is hersWhose vitality leaps in the autumn,Whose nature prefersTrees without leaves and a fire in. Written between August and December , Autumn Journal is still Louis MacNeice was born in Belfast in , the son of a Church of Ireland rector, later a.
Where are the mountains and the mountain skies, That heady air instinct journxl A strange sincerity which winged our lies?
And in the Prado half — wit princes looked from the canvas they had paid for Goya had the laugh — But can what is corrupt be cured by laughter? Rather for any measure so far given Let us be glad Nor wait on purpose to be wisely sad When doing nothing we find we have gained nothing.
These sections are central to his examination of his own attitude to the impending war. I loved her between the lines and against the clock, Not until death But till life did us part I loved her with paper money Maacneice with whisky on the breath. For never to begin Anything new because we know there is nothing New, is an academic sophistry– The original sin. Hitler yells on the wireless, The night is damp and still 50 And I hear dull blows on wood outside my window; They are cutting down the trees on Primrose Hill.
MacNeice was afflicted all his life with nightmares; they were a big feature, traceable back to the time when he was five, and his mother joutnal taken away to the asylum, never to return. The neon lights on the medieval wall. It is the nature of this poem to be neither final nor balanced.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. And you whose eyes are blue, whose ways are foam, Sleep quiet and smiling And do not hanker For a perfection which can never come. Around November, Eliot wrote to MacNeice asking for a statement about the poem to use for the catalogues, as Autumn Journal was slated for spring publication.
It was all so unimaginably different.
Autumn Journal Quotes
But still they manage to laugh. She is both a bore and a bitch; Better close the horizon, Send her no more fantasy, no more longings auutumn Are under a fatal tariff. It was the depression years.
And then I think of the others and jealousy riots In impossible schemes To kill them with all the machinery of fact and with all the Tortures of dreams. I sit in my room in comfort Looking at enormous flowers — Equipment purchased with my working hours, A daily mint of perishable petals.
Not strictly a journal but giving the tenor of my emotional experiences during that period. Peter Macdonald has also noted that the overriding mood in the poem is a sense of loss — of youthful illusions, of love, of personal integrity. With narrow wands of blue.
And I feel a certain pleasurable nostalgia In sitting alone, drinking, wondering if you Will suddenly thread your way among these vulcanite tables To a mutually unsuspected rendezvous Among these banal women with feathers in their hats and halos Of evanescent veils 87 And these bald-at-thirty Englishmen whose polished Foreheads are the tombs of record sales; Where alcohol, anchovies and shimmying street-lamps Knock the stolid almanac cock-a-hoop, Where reason drowns and the senses Foam, flame, tingle and loop the loop.
Each one takes his cowl and lets it fall. This life is everywhere questioned in the poem. MacNeice, however uncomfortable in his conscious enjoyment of relative privilege, was unequivocal about his horror in the face of the Munich agreement and the responsibility everyone bears for the body civic and politic. Circuses of death and from the topmost tiers A cataract of goggling, roaring faces; On the arena sand Those who are about to die try out their paces.
Think of a number, double it, treble it, square it, And sponge it out And repeat ad lib. Dublin Castle, the vice-regal ball, The embassies of Europe, Hatred scribbled on a wall, Gaols and revolvers.
I am not able, and I do not want, to abandon the world-view that I acquired in childhood. It contains rapportage [ sic ], metaphysics, ethics, lyrical emotion, autobiography, nightmare. Everything is going to plan. Now it is night, a cold mist creeps, the night Is still and damp and lonely; 4 7 Sitting by the fire it is hard to realise That the legions wait at the gates and that there is only A little time for rest though not by rights for rest, Rather for whetting the will, for calculating A compromise between necessity and wish, Apprenticed late to learn the trade of hating.
There is no reason for thinking That, if you give a chance to people to think or live, 17 B The arts of thought or life will suffer and become rougher And not return more than you could ever give. And at the curves of the road the telephone wires Shine like strands of silk and the hedge solicits My irresponsible tyres To an accident, to a bed in the wet grasses. But nobody cared, for the days were early. I stop the car and take the yellow placard.
The Thought Fox Ted Hughes. And reading Plato talking about his Forms To damn the artist touting round his mirror, I am glad that I have been left the third best bed And live in a world of error.
The repetitive process of time itself thus allows him to trace similar patterns in the poem and to move between past and future while remaining always conscious of the fluid nature of the present.
At night we sleep behind stockades of frost, Nothing alive in the streets to run the gauntlet Of this unworldly cold except the lost Wisps of steam from the gratings of the sewers. It is so hard to imagine A world where the many would have their chance without A fall in the standard of intellectual living And nothing left that the highbrow cared about.
London is indeed pregnant with something throughout the poem, and it manifests itself both materially and in behaviour.
Settings Tips on technique 3: When we meet, she need not feel embarrassed, The cad with the golden tongue has done his worst 76 And has no macjeice from me to mix his phrases rich, To make the auutumn a carpet For her to walk on; I only wonder which Day, which hour, I found this freedom.
Here we have the warning of consequences of taking no notice, of leaving things undone. But I was writ- ing what I have called a Journal. But tonight is quintessential dark forbidding. The other writers falling out or ill, I decided to go by myself, got a visa for Spain from the Spanish Consulate in Macnecie.
Pile high the tumulus, jourjal to starlight.
He is leaving Hampshire and going back to London. The fact remains that Eliot was right about Autumn Journal. The workman gathers his tools.