WALKING WORDS

I do love a good concordance.

 

In Mike Bonsall’s majestic concordance of JG Ballard you’ll discover that the sage of Shepperton used the word walk and its derivatives well over 500 times in his fiction.  I’m somehow glad to know that.

 

Photo by Fay Godwin

Examples:

 

I was walking down Shepperton High Street on my way to the shops

 

The psychiatrist was walking towards the pool with a dry towel.

 

Do you mind walking me back to the elevator? It must sound rather paranoid

 

I actually saw a unicorn walking on the water, its hooves shod in gold.

 

And so on.

 

https://bonsall-books.co.uk/concordance/index.htm

 

 

And now I discover a website called The Flickering Lexicon, which has a concordance of Fall lyrics, mostly by Mark E Smith I assume.  Did he let anybody else get a word in?

 

The scores are as follows

walk - 60

walked - 11

walks - 40

walking  -48

 

there’s one walkin, one walkmans, and one walkman’d 

 

I do like ‘walkman’d’ – I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it anywhere else.

 

Examples:

I was walking down the street when I tripped up on a discarded banana skin 

 

Watch out for the lorries as you walk in the gate

You don't see rabbits being walked down the street

They are walking with M&S bags, doing the jingle bell   

 

Hands up Billy you're walking in a crutch, yeah   

 

Photographer unknown, at least to me.

 

https://dannyno.org.uk/fall/w.htm

 

*

 

I’m not sure that either Ballard or Smith were great walkers but so what? The words are there, in the texts, in the literature.  That’s where it really matters.

 

JGB photo – Fay Godwin

 

Photographer unknown, at least to me.

 

Of course it’s not every author who merits a concordance (no, I’m not bitter, and yes I suppose you probably have to be dead) and even when they exist they may be done by individual titles rather than complete works, so I can’t give you the complete countdown for the whole of Virginia Woolf, but thanks to victorian-studies.net I can for Mrs Dallowayoften regarded as the crème de la crème of flaneuse fiction.  It has just 12 uses of walk, but 25 walking, 25 walked, 1 walks.

 

Example:

 

Yes, he remembered Regent's Park; the long straight walk; the little house where one bought air-balls to the left. 

 

I don’t really know what an air-ball is.  Could it be this kind of thing?

 

 

 

COME INTO THE GARDEN VITA

 And speaking of walking in gardens (as we almost were), there’s a 1927 love letter from Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville-West, that some sources will tell you is one of the great love letters of our time. 

    In that letter Woolf writes,‘Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.’

 

         I’ve always had found this a bit confusing. When she says ‘dine on the river,’ does she mean that they should actually eat in Hampton Court Palace and then walk in the garden? And does that mean Hampton Court was open at night for dining and walking? It currently closes at 5.30, with last admission at 4.30 but no doubt it was different in those days.  Or maybe the whole thing was a literary conceit.

 

We all know that Virginia was something of a walker, Vita perhaps less so, though there’s a radio talk she gave in 1950 titled ‘Walking Through Leaves.’  She explained that the title referred to ‘the small but intense pleasure of walking through dry leaves and kicking them up as you go, they rustle, they brustle, they crackle – and if you crunch beech nuts underfoot at the same time then so much the better”.  

         Ah, the nuts …

         

        Of course we know that Vita did not throw over her man – Harold Nicolson, and he was not easily thrown.  She did briefly leave him for Violet Trefusis but he was having none of that: he pursued her and brought her back home.

 

That was in 1920, six years before she met Virginia.  In 1930 Vita and Harold moved into Sissinghurst where Vita became famous for her gardening, if rather less so for her novels and poetry. Interestingly (perhaps) there is a series of ‘walks’ within the garden: the Lime Walk, the Moat Walk and especially the Nut Walk. 

 

In April 1930, Harold wrote in his diary about the moment he and Vita made up their minds about Sissinghurst: 'We came suddenly upon the nutwalk and that settled it.' 

This is Harold’s Nut Walk at Sissinghurst.

I'M NOT AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, JUST A BIT WARY

Mrs Dalloway in a hat

                 

I’ve been trying again to read Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway.  I’ve tried before and I gave it up as a bad job, but this time I got to the end of it.  It confirmed, what I already knew, that Virginia Woolf and I are not destined to be soul mates.

 

Mrs Dalloway has a reputation for being something of a walking novel. In Flaneuse Lauren Elkin says, ‘Mrs Dalloway is perhaps the greatest flaneuse of twentieth-century literature.’  She was wise to put in ‘perhaps,’ I’d say.  

 

True, Mrs Dalloway does do a bit of walking - she goes out to buy flowers because the servants are too busy preparing for her party (really - 'What a lark.   What a plunge!'),  but it’s a very short walk; she’s home by 11 am, apparently walking for an hour at most, and John Sutherland has pretty convincingly argued that she takes a taxi home.

 

But there’s a interesting line in the book.

“I love walking in London," said Mrs Dalloway. "Really it’s better than walking in the country!"

The line is unchanged from the way it appeared in the original short story version of the opening section, published in The Dial, in 1923, titled ‘Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street.’

I do wonder if this was an unusual or even a startling or subversive thing for a woman (or anybody) to think and say in 1923 (short story) or 1925 (novel).

 

We do know that Woolf had read, or had tried to read, Joyce’s Ulysses  (1922-ish), but she didn’t rate it because it was written by a ‘a self-taught working man’ – self taught at University College Dublin.

 

         And I suppose it’s possible that Woolf was aware that Baudelaire described the flâneur in his essayThe Painter of Modern Life (1863), but I think it’s highly improbable that Mrs. Dalloway was.

 

Fortunately, there is some fabulous unintentional humor in the novel, which had me shorting Guinness through my nose

Mrs. Dalloway is not the only walker in the book. Her daughter walks too, to the Army and Navy Stores along with her one-time nanny Miss Kilman, who is a communist, a committed Christian, and commentators seem to insist that she’s a lesbian, hence perhaps the name -- Woolf was such a subtle writer.

 

         The hilarity comes when Woolf describes Kilman’s conversion, which came while out walking some time earlier.  ‘Bitter and churning Miss Kilman had turned into a church two years three months ago.’

         Walking can be a great source of metamorphosis.

Liz Taylor, acting

WALKING WITH WOOLF

I’m sure I’ve said it before, probably on this blog, that Virginia Woolf, walker though she may well have been, is not an open book to me.  Nevertheless I happened to come across a paperback copy of her A Writer’s Diary, opened it pretty much at random and immediately found this passage:

Monday October 25th, 1920

“Why is life so tragic: so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss.  I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end.”

I thought that was a pretty good find. So imagine my angst on discovering that a version of that quotation is all over the interwebs, often superimposed on some cutesy New Agey background.  

Enough to make you want to walk into a river, almost. 

WALKING WITH WOMEN WALKERS

Eleanora Sears

Two books have recently come across the transom, one relatively new, one comparatively old.  The first is Lauren Elkins’ Flâneuse: Women Walk the City in Paris, New York, Tokyo, Venice, and London (2016) and The Wonderful World of Walking by Bill Gale (1979).

I belatedly bought myself a copy of Elkin’s Flâneuse since it’s become obvious that nobody is going to send me a freebie – despite my appearance in the bibliography.  No room in there for Iain Sinclair though – ha! (You realize that’s an ironic “ha!” right?)

I’d been reading the reviews of Flâneuse - and it’s not that I trust reviewers whether they’re praising or condemning a book - but there was something a bit off about many of them.  They were incredibly “supportive.”  They indicated that the book was a “good thing” but very few of them really showed actual enthusiasm or affection for the book.  “Well researched and larded with examples,” said Philippa Stockley in the Evening Standard.  Diane Johnson’s review in the New York Times seemed especially dutiful,  “If Elkin’s capsule biographies can occasionally seem a bit potted, they are never uninteresting.”

For my own part I wanted the book to be good – I like walking, I like women, I like women who walk, and I want women to be able to walk wherever they want without being abused or threatened, and all the rest.  Hell, some of my best friends are flâneuses.  And yet I had my doubts.  These doubts were not entirely assuaged by reading the book.

For one thing, there’s a chunk about Virginia Woolf and Bloomsbury.  I can see why there has to be, but the truth is that I don’t love Virginia Woolf, men don’t, they just don’t.   I think it’s mostly because her male characters always seem so feeble and awful.  Wouldn’t you throw yourself out of a window rather than be in the same room as Mr. Ramsey of To The Lighthouse fame.  And as for Augustus Carmichael, the visiting poet …

And I know people make claims for Mrs. Dalloway as a great psychogeographic novel, but am I right to be doubtful about this when John Sutherland has made a pretty convincing case that Mrs. Dalloway actually completes her London drift in a taxi? 

Flâneuse also contains a chunk about Sophie Calle who I think is a pretentious phoney, especially that nonsense in Suite Vénitienne of her “following” a man all the way to Venice, while being “followed” by a photographer: but I know other views are possible.  “These are not souvenir snapshots of a presence, but rather shots of an absence, the absence of the followed, that of the follower, and that of their reciprocal absence,” says Jean Baudrillard, not wishing to be outdone in the pretentious phoney stakes.

This can be blamed on Lauren Elkin of course, but we’re all on much safer ground with Martha Gellhorn, especially the articles she wrote for Colliers magazine about the civil war in Spain.  “No matter how often you do it, it is surprising just to walk to war from your own bedroom where you have been reading a detective story or a life of Byron, or listening to the phonograph, or chatting with friends.”

I also very much liked Elkin’s description of living in Tokyo, where she didn’t have the very best time.  “What bothered me most was the certainty I felt that there was a great city out there full of places I wanted to discover, but I didn’t know where to look for them.  I didn’t know what there was out there.  I didn’t know where to go, where to walk.”  It’s a feeling many of us have had, in places much less alien than Tokyo.

          I wish somebody had recommended to Elkin “Flesh and The Mirror” a short story by Angela Carter set in Tokyo, "I was crying bitterly as I walked under the artificial cherry blossoms with which they decorate the lamp standards from April to September. They do that so the pleasure quarters will have the look of a continuous carnival, no matter what ripples of agitation disturb the never-ceasing, endlessly circulating, quiet, gentle, melancholy crowds who throng the wet web of alleys under a false ceiling of umbrellas.”  I’m not saying this would have cheered Elkin up much, but it’s a good story.

I assume, on no absolute basis, that Angela Carter was quite the flaneuse when she was in Tokyo, and also in London, and indeed in Sheffield.

The Wonderful World of Walking is (let’s say) a text of its time.  A chapter titled “Walking and Today’s Woman” runs to all of two pages.  But the book does contain accounts of a few walking women, none of them exactly household names, and some completely new to me.

Minta Beach walked from New York to Chicago in 1912.  Minnie Hill Wood walked from Washington to San Francisco in 1916.  Eleanora Sears, an all round sportswoman, set a speed hiking record in 1925, walking the 74 miles between Newport, Rhode Island and Boston in 17 hours.  I imagine none of these women considered herself a flâneuse, and they surely didn’t consider themselves artists, although Minta Beach did publish a book about her walk. 

I did have vague memories of a later walker that Gale writes about: Dr. Barbara Moore.   I just about remember seeing her from time to time on TV when I was growing up in England.  She did a number of long walks, the one I remember best was from Land’s End to John O’Groats – 1200 miles in 23 days, I know now, so that’s over 50 miles per day.   I discover that was in 1960, so no wonder my memories are vague, and apparently that same year she walked from San Francisco to New York, 3,387-mile according to Gale, so a fairly indirect route, and in 86-days, so a fraction under 40 miles a day which seems barely imaginable.

Still there was much I didn’t know about her.  For one thing, although she was British by marriage, she was born in Russia in 1903, migrated to England in 1939, and had a career as an engineer.  So she’d have been in her mid to late 50s when she was doing the walks that made her famous.

I also didn’t know that she was a nutritional crank, a vegetarian, but sometimes also a breatharian, believing people could survive without food altogether.  According to Bill Gale, “A large glass of grass juice was her favorite six course meal in one.” In various interviews she said that people could live to be 150 or 200 years old, and claimed to have cured herself of leukemia, using a special diet.

         
What I absolutely didn't know, and which Gale doesn't mention, is that she spent the last years of her life fighting legal property battles over the lab she was planning to build next to her house in Frimley, in Surrey, and she was eventually jailed for contempt of court.  She died in a St Giles Hospital, London in 1977, somewhat earlier than she had anticipated.