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(This episode is marked as explicit because of derogatory language.)
Episode image is a detail of a photo by Charles Adrian
The title page of Biography Of A Locomotive Engine as given by Roland Gillott to Charles Adrian
A week after Dominic Cummings gave an unprecedented press conference in the Rose Garden at Downing Street, Charles Adrian talks about three more of the books that he has been given by guests on the podcast.
You can find out more about the Kennet & Avon Canal on the Canal River Trust website here.
You can find out more about the Buckinghamshire Railway Centre at Quainton here.
You can read more about Morton Feldman on Wikipedia here about Sonia Sekula here and about Robert Guston here.
Books discussed in this episode were previously discussed in Page One 46, Page One 47 and Page One 48.
A transcript of this episode is below.
Episode recorded: 1st June, 2020.
Episode released: 7th July, 2020.
Book listing:
The Biography Of A Locomotive Engine by Henry Frith (Page One 46)
By Night In Chile by Roberto Bolaño (trans. Chris Andrews) (Page One 47)
Give My Regards To Eighth Street by Morton Feldman (ed. B. H. Friedman) (Page One 48)
Links:
Buckinghamshire Railway Centre
Episode transcript:
Jingle
You're listening to Page One, the book podcast.
Charles Adrian
Hello and welcome to the 168th Page One. I'm Charles Adrian and this is the 12th Page One In Review.
You join me today on Monday the 1st of June - a pinch and a punch for the first of the month and no returns - exactly a week after Dominic Cummings's precedent-setting press conference in the Rose Garden at Downing Street. And, obviously, it's impossible with the tools at my disposal to separate causation and correlation but perhaps because of that press conference and all of the discussion around it or perhaps because the government has said that we can now gather in groups of six as long as we stay two metres away from each other, lockdown is effectively over in my part of London. I'm still trying to stay two metres away from people when I'm out in the street but it's increasingly difficult. We'll see how that develops.
Right. Okay. Now, I feel like I should say that I think this episode will start relatively strong and then fade towards the end. That's a reflection of the relative familiarity that I have with each of the books that I'm going to talk about this week. Page One In Review, for those of you joining us for the first time, is a strand of the Page One podcast in which I'm talking about all of the books that I've been given by guests on the podcast over the last eight years. We're nearing the end of the books that I received in the first season of the podcast in this episode.
[page turning]
The first book that I wanted to talk to you about today was given to me by my father, Roland Gillott. We had our conversation on a narrowboat called the Dream Weaver which was moored on the Kennett & Avon canal. Mooring it was a slightly hairy experience, I can tell you. We didn't take account of the current on the canal. I mean, I don't... I'd always assumed there was no current on a canal. I thought canals were effectively very long narrow pools of standing water but that's not the case - certainly on this section of the Kennett & Avon canal. And so, yeah, I seem to remember we moored the wrong end of the boat and then it flew out... the other end flew out into the middle of the current and... which I think subsequently was... was useful because it meant that we didn't have to turn the boat around to go back to [laughing] the... What do you call it? The harbour? That's not right, is it? The mooring place anyway. We... Essentially, we went out for a trip on... on the... on the Dream Weaver, this narrow-boat - lovely narrowboat, very attractive boat. We didn't go very far along the canal then we moored to have our conversation and, in the mourning process, we managed to turn the boat around. So then, after the conversation, we were able to just putter straight back down the canal to where we'd started from. It was, all in all, a very nice day.
My father gave me a book called The Biography Of A Locomotive Engine. My father is a huge fan of steam engines and in his retirement, up until the beginning of the pandemic, was volunteering regularly at the Quainton... or, I suppose, no, it's called the Buckingham... is it called the Buckinghamshire Railway Center, I think, at Quainton, which is a lovely place. I think it was for his sixtieth or his sixty-fifth birthday, we bought him... my sisters and I bought him a day driving a steam train, which was... it was wonderful to see how much fun he had. His face was completely smudged with soot [laughing] at the end of it. And he... Yeah, so he's... It's a lifelong passion with him, steam trains. He used to go with his brother to watch steam trains when they were a more regular part of the normal railway service in the south of England. And obviously the passion goes back generations because this book was written by Henry Frith, who is some ancestor of mine - either a great great grandfather or a great great great grandfather, I'm not entirely sure - but writing, I suppose, not quite at the beginning of the steam age but in the... perhaps at the height of the steam age? I'm not really sure. There's a preface to this book which is dated 1891.
This is a... The copy that I'm holding in my hand is a facsimile edition of The Biography Of A Locomotive Engine. Unfortunately, it's not a particularly good one. I mean, you can tell that from reading the cover, which has the title as The Bibliography Of A Locomotive Engine, which obviously is not... is not accurate. There are also pages missing. So I did try to read this and gave up because I got frustrated by not being able to follow the story.
It's also a book, I feel as though I should say, aimed more at people who are really interested in the... you know, the mechanics of railways and steam engines and so on. It begins with a description of how the Polyphemus, who is the locomotive engine mentioned in the title - the eponymous locomotive engine - is... There's a description at the beginning of how the Polyphemus was made and then some description of how other types of steam engine are made. The Polyphemus, apparently, is made of 5,416 separate bits and pieces, “which must be fitted,” we are told, “as carefully as the pieces of a watch!”
There is... There's exciting stuff that happens. The driver of the Polyphemus is a man called Robert Eldred and he gets involved in all kinds of scrapes. I mean, people die. Somebody called Amos loses his head at one point. He had been working in the mail van - which is also a fascinating... I mean, there's a whole description of how the mail van works. What else should I say about this book? It also... It has some really nice illustrations. Here's one on page 145, saying: “If you leave your box you'll be shot!” There's a man holding a gun pointing at the face of another man. I don't know... As I say, I didn't read very much of this story so I don't know why there are guns being drawn. The illustrations are by Paul Hardy.
I just wanted to read you a little bit about signals and how signals work. I didn't know they were so complicated. And this will give you a sense, not only of how signals work - or used to work - but also the kind of book this is. I mean, I think, yeah, the biggest problem with this book is that, although the story is undoubtedly exciting, Henry Frith - or Pops, or Grandpa, or Great Grandpa, whatever I might familiarly have called him had I known him - does keep interrupting the thrust [laughs] of the... of the narrative to describe stuff, which perhaps is, I don't know, unnecessary for the... for the success of the book - but for me now, just flicking through it, super interesting. I mean it's... Yeah, it's difficult to keep invested in what is actually happening to Robert Eldred and his engine, the Polyphemus, because of all this digression into... Oh, actually, wow... “The struggle in the cab.” Sorry, I've just come across another drawing of a man with a knife in his hand and there's a fight between two men. The one with a knife in his hand is not winning. So yeah, as... I mean, there's plenty of exciting stuff that happens in this story but as I say... Sorry, I'm... yeah, I mean, I'm fairly digressive myself, aren't I, in style. So perhaps it's... that's also a family trait.
Okay. So anyway. I'm going to read you from pages 116 and 117 of this 254 page edition of The Biography Of A Locomotive. And... So, as I say, this is a description of how signalling works. And I hope that you will find this as interesting as I did. And if not, I hope that it will at least give you a sense of what it's like to try and read this book, you know, for the story. So Eldred - Robert Eldred - is the... as I say, the... the driver of the Polyphemus and he has got out of his train to go and talk to a signalman on page 116:
It was blowing hard when Eldred stepped across the metals to ask the signalman in his box whether the down train was on the road.
Oh, the ‘down train’, by the way, is the... the train going from London to anywhere else in the country. The trains going from anywhere else in the country to London are called ‘up trains’. We don't use that terminology any more but I suppose in the nineteenth and early twentieth century that's... that's what those trains were called. Anyway. Let me start again:
It was blowing hard when Eldred stepped across the metals to ask the signalman in his box whether the down train was on the road. The wind sang and whistled through the wires like a dismal Æolian harp high overhead. The driver entered the signal-box, and with some difficulty closed the door.
“Rough night, Tom,” he said, nodding at the man.
“Ay, 'tis so; trains late too,” replied Tom.
“Not signalled yet?” asked Eldred.
“No; unless the wire's down; but in that case, I'd ha' heard the bell go.”
“Well, Tom.” said Eldred cheerfully, “there's quite a Jack-in-the-box up here. I wouldn't be on thy job for a trifle. Why, look at all them new levers! What's them for?”
“The new sidin's. Ay, there's a tidy few points about here; it looks complicated a bit but it's easy enough. Ye can't make a mistake!”
“Can't, eh? Looks to me as if there'd be nowt else with all them levers! I never could rightly understand 'em, Tom”
The signalman briefly explained the ingenious mechanism to the driver; and as, no doubt, many readers of this volume would also like to know the mode of working the signals, I will explain it in a few sentences.
The signals moved are many and at various distances, and one would naturally inquire how the levers for all the points are worked. The handles are numbered with serial numbers attached to those which must be also pulled to let the train cross from line to line. Some levers are coloured red, others green, according to the points or signals they control.
There are many levers, and at first, and even after a long time, it seems to the visitor impossible that any men can remain in full possession of all their faculties in a signal-box of any importance. The continued ringing of electric bells and clanging of levers; the almost endless labour of some days, the necessity of replying at once to the beats which vary greatly in number, and the demand for immediate perfect attention and clear-headedness, seem to be requirements almost superhuman.
A lever is labelled with three or four numbers, perhaps; this numbering indicates the stamps on the other levers, which must be pulled off with the first one. Suppose we have 23, 5, 6, 9, on a lever which is No. 23. Then you must pull off all the other numbers to clear the road required. When the train is gone the numbers are let go in reverse order; the line is closed then, the points fixed. All is in normal condition; and this state could not be arrived at if anything was wrong, or any signal wrongly shown. The point levers interlock with the signal levers, and none can be moved without the others to complete the operation.
Perhaps half a dozen or more movements may thus be necessary before the train can cross the lines. Point tracks must be blocked, others opened, signals lowered and raised, before a train can find its way clear across the metals to a siding or other line.
In the signal-box are small (miniature) signal-posts about six inches high. These reproduce, in the box, the actions of the signals hundreds of yards away on the line; so a man can see at a glance whether his signals are acting properly. The danger-signal at one station-box is also controlled by the signaller in the next one, and thus he indicates danger by a ‘detective,’ which the man in whose box it is cannot alter. It is worked from the next ‘block’ cabin, and shows the state of the signal there.
Four bell inquiries are necessary for every train. Train ‘on’ is the warning, then the recipient of it signals to the next box; he receives the reply ‘Line clear,’ which he sends back with a ‘ring,’ and takes off his danger-signal. This has to be done dozens of times in an hour, and on busy days the ringing is incessant and confusing to an ordinary mind; while the hard labour involved would alarm many a convict or navvy.
Eldred was of this opinion also.
“Ting, Ting,” on the electric bell announced the approach of the passenger train, and Eldred prepared to descend.
[faint sound of train passing]
And right on time the Overground train [laughing] comes past my window. There you go. So I read, actually, as far as page 118 because I wanted to get the full description in. But, yeah, as I say, there are... there are two big problems with this book. One is this... these repeated digressions into really quite detailed description of how the railway really works, which would appeal to a lot of readers, I think, as the narrator says - and does... does, in fact, appeal to me. And the other bigger problem with this particular copy is the fact that there are pages missing, which is the reason that I didn't finish reading it. But I might go back to it. I really enjoyed reading that a little bit and I might just, I don't know, dip in and out perhaps.
Okay.
[page turning]
The second book that I want to talk to you about today was given to me by Kiran Chauhan during the 47th Page One. We had our conversation sitting outside the cafe in Hampstead Heath. And this one I read all the way through and unfortunately, as with so many books, remember nothing about. It's By Night In Chile by Roberto Bolaño. This is a Vintage... a Vintage paperback of 130 pages. The last line of the book is: “And then the storm of shit begins.”
Yeah, I have no idea what happens in this.
Dur...
On the back it tells us that:
During the course of a single night, Father Sebastian Urrutu... Urrutia Lacroix, a Chilean priest, who is a member of Opus Dei, a literary critic and a mediocre poet, relives some of the crucial events of his life.
There you go. I am... So I have very little to say about it. I'm just going to read you a section which is... Yeah. I don't know. I just picked it at random, I think. It's from pages 84 and 85 of this book. Yeah. Perhaps this is one to add to the pile of books that I ought to reread. Anyway. From page 84:
We must be dreaming, I thought. As we were leaving the cemetery, arm in arm, I saw a man propped against a tomb, asleep. A shiver ran down my spine. The following days were fairly calm, and I was tired from reading all those Greeks. So I returned to the literature of Chile. I tried to write a few poems. For a start everything came out in iambic metre. Then I don't know what came over me. My poetry veered from the angelic to the demonic. Often in the evening I was tempted to show my confessor the verses I had written, but I never did. I wrote about women, hatefully, cruelly, I wrote about homosexuals and children lost in derelict railway stations. If I had to describe my poetry, I would say that, until then, it had always been Apollonian, yet I had begun to write in what might tentatively be described as a Dionysiac mode. But in fact it wasn't Dionysiac poetry. Or demonic poetry. It was just raving mad. Those poor women who appeared in my poems, what had they ever done to me? Deceived me perhaps? What had those poor homosexuals done to me? Nothing. Nothing. Not the women, not the queers. And the children, for God's sake, what could they possibly have done? So what were those hapless creatures doing there, stranded in those landscapes of decay? Maybe I was one of those children? Maybe they were the children I would never have? Maybe they were the lost children of lost parents I would never know? So why was I raving on and on? My daily life, by contrast, was perfectly calm. I spoke in measured tones, never got angry, was organized and punctual. I prayed each night and fell asleep without difficulty. Occasionally I had nightmares, but in those days just about everybody had nightmares from time to time, though some more often than others. In the mornings, nevertheless, I woke up refreshed, ready to face the day's tasks.
Yes, I remember why I picked that now. I like it. I think it's really lovely. I very much enjoy his reflection. There's a kind of confession followed by reflection that I... yeah... that's very pleasing to me. “Maybe I was one of those children. Maybe they were the children I would never have. Maybe they were the lost children of lost parents I would never know.” Yeah. Those sentences really appeal to me.
The other book that Kiran talked about, incidentally, was Orlando by Virginia Woolf and I mention that only because that is a book I very much enjoy and have read and reread and still love and will probably reread again in the future.
[page turning]
Okay. The third book that I want to talk to you about today was given to me by Hannah Rickards during the 48th Page One. This is a book that I have not read at all. It's the collected writings of Morton Feldman entitled Give My Regards To Eighth Street, edited by B. H. Friedman with an afterword by Frank O'Hara. This is published by Exact Change. It says “Exact Change, Cambridge, 2000”. I don't know whether that's Cambridge, UK, or Cambridge, Massachusetts, US. Very likely US. This has... This book has 217 pages. I don't know who Morton Feldman is but this book has to do with sound and music, which is not entirely surprising given that Hannah Rickards is an artist who works with sound. I met her through a friend but we... I worked on a couple of projects with her and her work is fascinating.
I just... I found this book too difficult. I did try to start it and I don't know... It was very hard work somehow. I think it might be worth coming back to. Having reread some of it to... you know, as I was looking for something to read during this episode, I I found that it is... it's... it's witty and interesting. And so, yes, I feel as though I should give it another go. I think perhaps one of the barriers for me was just that there are so many references in here that don't resonate. I d... There are people that I don't know about and, you know, art that I don't know, music that I don't know, terms that I don't know. And so there's an awful lot that is, you know, difficult for me to understand at first reading. And I think that's probably what has put me off. But perhaps I should... I should try a little bit harder and it might repay the effort.
There's a... For example - this isn't the bit that I thought I was going to read to you but I've just found it as I was preparing to start the episode - on page 102 it says: “Who Was Sonia Sekula?” And that... You know, very good question. [laughing] I don't... I wouldn't be able to tell you. I haven't heard of Sonia Sekula. I don't know. And the answer is not... it's beautifully evocative but not very informative. It's a very short page. It says:
She was totally charming, beautiful, witty, tiny; the silent movie star type.
She had a fantastic, unusual facility with words.
She was unusually gifted; her work had a conviction, an authenticity that made you wonder who this person is and what is going to happen to all this talent.
She was an addition to that world, that whole cast of Hemingway characters; she was very gifted, that little spice that added to the scene tremendously.
There you go. So that's a potted... little word portrait of Sonia Sekula. But the bit that I was planning to read to you is on page 64 and 65. And it's a comparison between painting and music that I... I find very interesting about... It's to do with practice and technique but also what... you know, the different things that painting and music allow because of, you know, how... what they are and how we... what they're made of, really. You know, one is a medium that exists, in a sense, materially and durationally and the other is a medium that tends to exist fleetingly and invisibly also. Okay. Anyway. I'm... I don't have anything intelligent to add to what Morton Feldman writes about it. I'll just read his... his words.
This brings up the question we thought we had decided earlier in our life: what is technique? Is it just the ability to hit a nail into a piece of wood? This needs very little practice. But to take a Mozart concerto, or a work by Webern, and to rewrite it - now that does need practice! So maybe we have the answer, and technique is simply imitation. But who did Mozart imitate in order to write his own concerto? Haydn? But suppose one is so unluckily constituted that he does not, or cannot, imitate? Where then is technique? Is it perhaps a question of hitting the nail, but at an impossible angle? But we all know this is just a poor, honest country cousin called Craft.
Let us allow this question to stand for a while. Recently I chose some pictures by Mondrian for an exhibition at St. Thomas University, in Houston. Clearly Mondrian envisions a Utopia. He endlessly reduces, endlessly simplifies in the attempt to get at this Utopia. Yet the way it is painted is hesitant and slow... anything but the absolute certainty of this absolute state, this Utopia. Mondrian is in the painting, though in terms of his conception, one would think he would have chosen to remain outside.
In Guston...
I don't know how to pronounce that...
… we see a different aspect of the same duality. Here the visible structure (the part of the structure that we see, really see) is arrived at very slowly, very precariously. Yet the way it is painted is Chasidic - exalted.
On yet another level, Guston's conflict is between the personal, which is anti-process, and the impersonal, which is process. Where he differs from a painter like Picasso is that with Guston the historical is not an analysis of history, but a sort of distillation of hundreds of years of seeing, touching, observing, watching, waiting, deciding. Where Picasso analyzes, Guston continues. Where Picasso is saturated in a history lesson, Guston is saturated in history.
This duality I speak of - this contradiction - does not exist in music. There is nothing in music, for example, to compare with certain drawings of Mondrian, where we still see the contours and rhythms that have been erased, while another alternative has been drawn on top of them. Music's tragedy is that it begins with perfection.
Renoir once said the same color, applied by two different hands, would give us two different tones. In music, the same note, written by two different composers, gives us - the same note. When I write a B flat, and Berio writes a B flat, what you get is always B flat. The painter must create his medium as he works. That's what gives his work that hesitancy, that insecurity so crucial to painting. The composer works in a preexistent medium. In painting if you hesitate, you become immortal. In music if you hesitate, you are lost.
So. Yeah. I find that dense in parts but there's something in there that strikes me as very interesting and really fertile of further thoughts and ideas. So I might actually read that one one day.
[sound of joint cracking]
Sorry, that was my elbow cracking. Right. Yeah. This is... What was this? The... The 12th Page One In Review. The next episode will... will be the last one to contain books given to me during the first season of the podcast - I can't remember now whether I said that at the beginning of the episode or not - and... and then we will move on to books given to me during the second season of the podcast. How exciting.
[sound of joint cracking]
Oh, another click. I don't know if you heard that. That was further down. That was my knee this time. I should probably [laughing] do something about all this clicking. I'll just move around a bit, I think. I think I've been... I've been standing here a little bit rigidly trying to find intelligent things to say about books that either I haven't read or don't remember. Okay. Thank you very much for accompanying me through this episode and I will speak to you again very soon. Bye.
Jingle
Thank you for listening to Page One. For more information about the podcast, please go to pageonepodcast.com.
[Initial transcription by https://otter.ai]