Nameless.

VINCULUS' SONG

I reached out my hand, England's rivers turned and flowed the other way...

I reached out my hand, my enemies's blood stopt in their veins...

I reached out my hand; thought and memory flew out of my enemies' heads like a flock of starlings;

My enemies crumpled like empty sacks.

I came to them out of mists and rain;

I came to them in dreams at midnight;

I came to them in a flock of ravens that filled a northern sky at dawn;

When they thought themselves safe I came to them in a cry that broke the silence of a winter wood...

The rain made a door for me and I went through it;

The stones made a throne for me and I sat upon it;

Three kingdoms were given to me to be mine forever;

England was given to me to be mine forever.

The nameless slave wore a silver crown;

The nameless slave was a king in a strange country...

The weapons that my enemies raised against me are venerated in Hell as holy relics;

Plans that my enemies made against me are preserved as holy texts;

Blood that I shed upon ancient battlefields is scraped from the stained earth by Hell's sacristans and placed in a vessel of silver and ivory.

I gave magic to England, a valuable inheritance

But Englishmen have despised my gift

Magic shall be written upon the sky by the rain but they shall not be able to read it;

Magic shall be written on the faces of the stony hills but their minds shall not be able to contain it;

In winter the barren trees shall be a black writing but they shall not understand it...

Two magicians shall appear in England...

The first shall fear me; the second shall long to behold me;

The first shall be governed by thieves and murderers; the second shall conspire at his own destruction;

The first shall bury his heart in a dark wood beneath the snow, yet still feel its ache;

The second shall see his dearest posession in his enemy's hand...

The first shall pass his life alone, he shall be his own gaoler;

The second shall tread lonely roads, the storm above his head, seeking a dark tower upon a high hillside...

I sit upon a black throne in the shadows but they shall not see me.

The rain shall make a door for me and I shall pass through it;

The stones shall make a throne for me and I shall sit upon it...

The nameless slave shall wear a silver crown

The nameless slave shall be a king in a strange country...

Susanna Clarke, from Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell

Excellent.

An excellent book ...

In my mind are all the tides, their seasons, their ebbs and their flows. In my mind are all the halls, the endless procession of them, the intricate pathways. When this world becomes too much for me, when I grow tired of the noise and the dirt and the people, I close my eyes and I name a particular vestibule to myself; then I name a hall.

Susanna Clarke, from Piranesi

Shadows.

VINCULUS' SONG

I reached out my hand, England's rivers turned and flowed the other way...

I reached out my hand, my enemies's blood stopt in their veins...

I reached out my hand; thought and memory flew out of my enemies' heads like a flock of starlings;

My enemies crumpled like empty sacks.

I came to them out of mists and rain;

I came to them in dreams at midnight;

I came to them in a flock of ravens that filled a northern sky at dawn;

When they thought themselves safe I came to them in a cry that broke the silence of a winter wood...

The rain made a door for me and I went through it;

The stones made a throne for me and I sat upon it;

Three kingdoms were given to me to be mine forever;

England was given to me to be mine forever.

The nameless slave wore a silver crown;

The nameless slave was a king in a strange country...

The weapons that my enemies raised against me are venerated in Hell as holy relics;

Plans that my enemies made against me are preserved as holy texts;

Blood that I shed upon ancient battlefields is scraped from the stained earth by Hell's sacristans and placed in a vessel of silver and ivory.

I gave magic to England, a valuable inheritance

But Englishmen have despised my gift

Magic shall be written upon the sky by the rain but they shall not be able to read it;

Magic shall be written on the faces of the stony hills but their minds shall not be able to contain it;

In winter the barren trees shall be a black writing but they shall not understand it...

Two magicians shall appear in England...

The first shall fear me; the second shall long to behold me;

The first shall be governed by thieves and murderers; the second shall conspire at his own destruction;

The first shall bury his heart in a dark wood beneath the snow, yet still feel its ache;

The second shall see his dearest posession in his enemy's hand...

The first shall pass his life alone, he shall be his own gaoler;

The second shall tread lonely roads, the storm above his head, seeking a dark tower upon a high hillside...

I sit upon a black throne in the shadows but they shall not see me.

The rain shall make a door for me and I shall pass through it;

The stones shall make a throne for me and I shall sit upon it...

The nameless slave shall wear a silver crown

The nameless slave shall be a king in a strange country...

Susanna Clarke, from Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell

Unquestionably.

From last autumn, Nail Gaiman talks with Susanna Clarke to discuss her novel, Piranesi, which he calls "unquestionably the finest English novel of the fantastic written in the last seventy years" ...

Papery.

Wyeth, Dead of Winter, 1942

SNOW

The dreamed Christmas,

flakes shaken out of silences so far

and starry we can’t sleep for listening

for papery rustles out there in the night

and wake to find our ceiling glimmering,

the day a psaltery of light.

So we’re out over the snow fields

before it’s all seen off with a salt-lick

of Atlantic air, then home at dusk, snow-blind

from following chains of fox and crow and hare,

to a fire, a roasting bird, a ringing phone,

and voices wondering where we are.

A day foretold by images

of glassy pond, peasant and snowy roof

over the holy child iconed in gold.

Or women shawled against the goosedown air

pleading with soldiers at a shifting frontier

in the snows of television,

while in the secret dark a fresh snow falls

filling our tracks with stars.

Gillian Clarke

Excellent.

 An excellent book ...

Read.

Convoluted.

Mr. Honeyfoot and Mr. Segundus meet Mr. Norrell in his library in a scene from Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell ...

Watch your step, gentlemen.  The way is ... convoluted ...

Wonder.

Mr Norrell led the other two gentlemen along a passage -- a very ordinary passage, thought Mr Segundus, panelled and floored with well-polished oak, and smelling of beeswax; then there was a staircase, or perhaps only three or four steps; and then another passage where the air was somewhat colder and the floor was good York stone: all entirely unremarkable.  (Unless the second passgae had come before the staircase or steps?  Or had there in truth been a staircase at all?)  Mr Segundus was one of those happy gentlemen who can always say whether they face north or south, east or west.  It was not a talent he took any particular pride in -- it was as natural to him as knowing that his head still stood upon his shoulders -- but in Mr Norrell's house his gift deserted him.  He could never afterwards picture the sequence of passageways and rooms through which they had passed, nor quite decide how long they had taken to reach the library.  And he could not tell the direction; it seemed to him as if Mr Norrell had discovered some fifth point of the compass -- not east, nor south, nor west, nor north, but somewhere quite different and this was the direction in which he had led them.  Mr Honeyfoot, on the other hand, did not appear to notice anything odd.

The library was perhaps a little smaller than the drawing room they had just quitted.  There was a noble fire in the hearth and all was comfort and quiet.  Yet once again the light within the room did not seem to accord with the three tall, twelve-paned windows, so that once again Mr Segundus was made uncomfortable by a persistent feeling that there ought to have been other candles in the room, other windows, or another fire to account for the light.  What windows there were looked out upon a wide expanse of dusky English rain so that Mr Segundus could not make out the view nor guess where in the house they stood.

The room was not empty; there was a man sitting at a table who rose as they entered, and whom Mr Norrell briefly declared to be Childermass, his man of business.

Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus, being magicians themselves, had not needed to be told that the library of Hurtfew Abbey was dearer to its possessor than all his other riches; and they were not surprised to discover that Mr Norrell had constructed a beautiful jewel box to house his heart's treasure.  The bookcases which lined the walls of the room were built of English woods and resembled Gothic arches laden with cravings.  There were carvings of leaves (dried and twisted leaves, as if the season the artist had intended to represent were autumn), carvings of intertwining roots and branches, carvings of berries and ivy -- all wonderfully done.  But the wonder of the bookcases was nothing to the wonder of the books.

Suzanna Clarke, from Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell

Read.

Remember, it's Amateur Night, kids; best to follow Mr. Norrell's advice ...

Excellent.

An excellent book ...

Magic.

CONNECT