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<DIV>And a Hogarth Press author, to boot: "Fairground Music" (1961); "The Tree
that Walked" (1967).</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>Stuart</DIV>
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<DIV style="font-color: black"><B>From:</B> <A
title=Adolphe.Haberer@univ-lyon2.fr
href="mailto:Adolphe.Haberer@univ-lyon2.fr">Adolphe Haberer</A> </DIV>
<DIV><B>Sent:</B> Tuesday, June 10, 2014 3:57 PM</DIV>
<DIV><B>To:</B> <A title=vwoolf@lists.service.ohio-state.edu
href="mailto:vwoolf@lists.service.ohio-state.edu">vwoolf@lists.service.ohio-state.edu</A>
</DIV>
<DIV><B>Subject:</B> [Vwoolf] Prescience: Virginia Woolf's
deathday</DIV></DIV></DIV>
<DIV> </DIV></DIV>
<DIV
style='FONT-SIZE: small; TEXT-DECORATION: none; FONT-FAMILY: "Calibri"; FONT-WEIGHT: normal; COLOR: #000000; FONT-STYLE: normal; DISPLAY: inline'>Dear
Woolfians,
<DIV>I have come across a poem by John Fuller, a Fellow Emeritus at Magdalen
College, Oxford, certainly one of the finest living poets in England. John told
me he wrote it in syllabics “in order to accommodate the prose quotations”. It
is a bit long, but well worth reading to the end.</DIV>
<DIV>Ado Haberer</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>Prescience<BR> <BR>To mourn throughout your life<BR>That unknown day
when you<BR>Wake up for the last time<BR>Is quite impossible.<BR>It will arrive
when it<BR>Decides to, and will not<BR>Be denied, though it be<BR>Painful and
unannounced.<BR> <BR>Still, we toy with this thought<BR>And find the
resonance<BR>Attractive to our sense<BR>Of the deep recklessness<BR>Of all
physical hopes<BR>Which nonetheless rely<BR>On celebration and<BR>Calendar
calculations.<BR> <BR>No candles on a cake,<BR>Unless a countback
from<BR>Your theoretical<BR>Threescore-and-ten might serve.<BR>No
congratulations,<BR>Since all you have achieved<BR>Is a noted dwindling.<BR>What
a licence for gloom !<BR> <BR>No presents: far better<BR>A disburdening
of<BR>All earthly possessions,<BR>A practised letting go.<BR>And yet the unseen
guests<BR>At the non-existent<BR>Party expect some words.<BR>It is that kind of
day.<BR> <BR>Take the example of<BR>Virginia Woolf, who<BR>In
1941<BR>Walked into the Ouse on<BR>The 28th of March,<BR>Thus forever
putting<BR>From her like a locked door<BR>The fear of going mad.<BR> <BR>On
that very same day<BR>A dozen years before,<BR>With deathday prescience<BR>She
opened her journal<BR>And her pen sailed over<BR>The calm flowing of
the<BR>Page: ‘I met Nessa in<BR>Tottenham Court Road
this<BR> <BR>Afternoon, both of us<BR>Sunk fathoms deep in that<BR>Wash of
reflection in<BR>Which we both swim about.’<BR>And then, with
precision,<BR>Wrote: ‘Only in myself . . .<BR>Forever bubbles this<BR>Impetuous
torrent.’<BR> <BR>She continued thus in<BR>1929: ‘I<BR>Feel on the verge of
some<BR>Strenuous adventure.’<BR>In 1930 (though<BR>She was writing about<BR>Her
novel The Waves): ‘How<BR>To end . . . I do not know.’<BR> <BR>The
following year her<BR>Nib broke the surface of<BR>The ink: ‘Arnold
Bennett<BR>Died last night’ were its words.<BR>In 1935:<BR>‘Spring triumphant.’
And in<BR>1937:<BR>‘I shall lapse into dreams.’<BR> <BR>These were deathday
speeches:<BR>Gracious, though in places<BR>Troubled; prophetic, though<BR>Never
balefully so.<BR>Whatever you are heard<BR>To say on your deathday<BR>You may be
sure that it<BR>Will hardly be noticed.<BR> <BR>In fact, no one will
be<BR>There to wish you many<BR>Unhappy returns; no<BR>Cards clatter through
your box.<BR>But make no mistake. Death<BR>Will come one day, smiling,<BR>With
that shape you must guess:<BR>The stone in his pocket.<BR> <BR>John
Fuller<BR><I>The Grey Among the Green</I>, London, Chatto and Windus, 1988, p.
24.<BR><I>New Selected Poems</I>, London, Chatto and Windus, 2012, p.
6.</DIV><BR><BR>
<DIV apple-content-edited="true">====================<BR>Adolphe
Haberer<BR>Professeur émérite à l'Université Lumière-Lyon 2<BR>1 route de
Saint-Antoine<BR>69380 Chazay d'Azergues<BR>33 (0)4 78 43 65 24<BR><A
href="mailto:adolphe.haberer@univ-lyon2.fr">adolphe.haberer@univ-lyon2.fr</A><BR>ado@haberer.fr<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR></DIV><BR>
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