Another damnable book

lyra

There are people who say that the way to decide if you want to read a particular book is to scan the first paragraph and then the last. So here they are – not a book yet, just a manuscript:

First:

It was drizzling as I came out of Baker Street Station onto Marylebone Road. Black and white movie footage, c. 1912, played in my head. Same historic city. Same hectic surge of Hansom cabs down towards the West End—though now they are 4WDs—same omnibuses and ambulances, same headlines of impending doom. The same beggars at the gate, with their ancient eyes turned pleadingly away from, or towards, an eternity of need. The fellow I asked the way to Gloucester Place attuned his reply to a register halfway between the importunate and the insubordinate: in case I should turn out to be someone. I said I was nobody; and with the equivocal grace so given went the way he pointed, west towards Westminster.

Last:

There was a blind singer who sat in the street outside the courtyard where she worked and we listened to him too. It was different and the same; instead of a loom he had beneath his fingers the strings of a lyre. An old tortoise shell sounding board, skin-covered, with seven gut strings stretched up to the cross-piece between the arms. A splintery wooden bridge that reverberated in the thrum he made as he strummed; when he picked out a melody, it made a weave with his words. It was the same thing—weft and warp, words and music. He played hard and fast and his words were chanted in a high-pitched strenuous stream that made it difficult to distinguish one from the other or parts from the whole. In time I learned the way to hear him was to listen to the lines, for the shape of the lines. What happened then is the lines entering my ears came to my mind like things entire unto themselves. The whisper of the shuttle, the hand upon the strings, the dyed threads unthreading from their spools above the loom, my mother’s singing, the voice in the street outside that court of dusty feet—all these disparate things came together in the lines. And with the lines, or really by means of the lines, the hexameters, the stories began to tell themselves. These were the old stories too: but what stories were they? Kings and queens, battles and feasts, loves and deaths. The gods and their betrayals, men and women in their fidelity and their infidelity, their grandeur and their shame, their splendour and their spite. The accidents of fate, which are not accidents at all. And the ordinary: the caring for animals, the making of cheese, the growing of crops; olive and vine and wheat; food and drink, music and dance. The natural world, all about us, like a shroud.

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