The first job of a critic is to describe what he has read. That is a lot more difficult than one might suspect. I have often thought that one ofthe reasons why there have been so few good American literary critics is that those Americans who do read books tend to be obsessed with the personality of the author under review. The politics, sex, class of the author are all-important while the book at hand is simply an excuse to discuss, say, the anti-Semitism of Pound, the homosexuality of Whitman, the social climbing of James. Since the American character is essentially tendentious and sectarian, the American critic must decide in advance whether or not the writer he is writing about is a Good Person; that is, one who accepts implicitly all the going superstitions (a.k.a. values [sic]) of the middle class of the day. If the writer is a GP, then what he writes is apt to be good. If he is a BP, forget it.
Gore Vidal, ‘V.S. Pritchett as “Critic”’, New York Review of Books, 1979
A girl there was, and her father was rich, and her mother was rich, and they both loved her with all that they had. And they lived together and were very happy.
Well, one day her mother died, as happens from time to time, and though her father still loved her, he came to wish for a woman who would love him in turn. So he cast his eye about, and at length he fixed upon a woman of the town, who was wealthy and handsome and had a grown daughter of her own.
The man's daughter was plump and pretty, with a smile like sunlight, and besides was quick and sure with a needle, and was reckoned the best stitcher and mender the town had ever seen, and her new step-mother hated her, because her own daughter was sour and sallow and had no talents worthy of mentioning. So, as soon as she was mistress of the house, she sent the girl to live with the servants below stairs, where she cooked and cleaned, and had to darn and mend the clothes of the whole household. So there she sat, in her little room, without food to eat or water to wash, stitching and sewing all day long, and from each garment she sewed she took the tiniest scrap of cloth, and so much work was she given, that in no great time she had gotten a fair collection of pieces, which she kept under her sheets as a mattress.
And so things went on, until one day, when the girl had tiptoed up to the brink of womanhood, her step-mother demanded that the girl sew a grand gown for her step-sister. For their mother had decided it was time for her daughter to find a husband, and wished her to look her best to attract a rich man. Well, the girl just smiled, and asked for the finest blue silk and silver thread to work with, which she was given.
The girl worked all night, stitching and sewing, and in the morning she had made the most beautiful dress you ever saw, and her step-mother was well pleased when she saw it. But the girl said, “Oh, good mother, if you will but give me pearls and golden thread, I will make this dress ten times more beautiful.” Well, the step-mother liked the sound of that, and ordered a thousand tiny pearls and the finest gold thread to be brought.
For a second night the girl worked, affixing the pearls amidst whirling golden patterns that enraptured the eye, and by morning the dress was ten times more beautiful than the day before, and the step-mother and her daughter gazed at it in wonder. But the girl said, “Good mother, grant me diamonds and rubies, and I will make this dress finer yet, and she who wears it will win the hearts of whoever sees her.” Mother and daughter both liked the sound of that, and a bag of jewels was quickly brought, and the girl set to work.
But she did not work on the dress. Oh no, that was finished, sure enough. Instead, she pulled all the spare scraps of cloth from her bed and, stitching furiously, she sewed herself a patchwork coat of a thousand pieces, no two the same. Pulling on the coat, she bundled up the beautiful dress, pocketed the bag of jewels, and long before the cock crowed, she had set out to seek her fortune.
So she walked and walked, and sometimes she grew hungry and thirsty, but a diamond could buy food, sure enough. And sometimes strangers would wonder about the grubby girl in the strange coat, but a ruby could buy silence, well enough. And though the step-mother raged and demanded the return of her property, before long the girl was far away, leaving no clue as to where she had gone.
Well, diamonds and rubies only last so long, and the girl started to think it was time to find work. As she thought this, she saw a castle on a nearby hilltop, and hurried thither. At the castle gates, she met the Queen of those lands, who was riding out to hunt, and called out to her. Any other day, the Queen would have paid her no mind and gone on her way, but her attention was caught by the girl's strange, patchwork coat, and she beckoned her over, wrinkling her nose a little at the girl's dirty face, and asked her name.
“My name is Patches,” said the girl, smartly enough. The Queen reached down and plucked at the sleeve of the girl's coat.
“Is this what you are then?” She asked.
“And why not?” Said the girl. “For I sewed it myself, and proud I am of my work. There are worse things to be known by than my coat, Your Majesty.” The Queen was a grand lady, very tall and very stern, but she smiled a little at that, the slightest twitch of her lips. The girl saw this and smiled in return, and though it was a grey, autumn day, if you'd seen her smile you'd have sworn it was the brightest day of summer.
So the Queen asked Patches what she wanted. To serve you, was the answer. Serve me how, she asked.
“I can cook well enough, and clean well enough, but I can stitch and sew better than anybody.”
The Queen looked Patches over closely, and saw how finely made her coat was, better than the Queen had ever seen before, and straight away gave orders that the girl be hired as a seamstress and dressmaker, and given a room in the castle, and so it was done.
Patches lived happily in the castle. She worked hard, sewing livery for the servants and tabards for the soldiers. She had a good bed to sleep in and good food to eat, and water to wash with, though to everyone's puzzlement she chose not to use it. Instead, she was never seen without her dirty face and her patchwork coat.
The Queen often visited her in her room when she needed a new dress, and would talk to her kindly. The Queen would talk about her lands, and about her son, who was the same age as Patches, or thereabouts, and was a bold, handsome lad, good-hearted enough, though flighty and fickle. Patches would talk happily about everything except for herself, and if the Queen should ask her from where she came, or who her family were, she would laugh and point to one of her coat's patches. “This is wool, brought by ship from England.” She might say, or “This is cotton, carried all the way from India on the back of a donkey.” And she would smile, and the Queen would smile, and they would talk of other things.
Well, after some months of this, the young Prince came of age, and a grand celebration was announced, three days of dancing and feasting, and all of the nobles and gentry of the kingdom were invited, and all of the neighbouring kingdoms too. Patches was busier than she had ever been, for everyone in the castle wanted their clothes to be perfect.
“Will you be attending the celebrations, Patches?” The Queen asked, as she was fitted with her new ballgown. “I would be glad to see you there.” Patches only laughed and plucked at the front of her coat.
“I would not care to waste time making a dress for myself, Your Majesty, and my old coat, though I love it, is not fit for banquets and ballrooms,” she said, and though the Queen tried to persuade her, the girl would have none of it.
The first night of the celebration came, and it seemed like the whole world had gathered in the castle's magnificent ballroom. The finest cooks and musicians in ten kingdoms had been summoned, and the wine flowed like water. The Queen surveyed the room from her throne, regal and austere, as her guests danced and drank and flirted. The Prince wore his best uniform, a brand new sword at his side, which he was very proud of, and his attendants offered frequent reminders not to unsheathe it in the middle of the ballroom.
In her room, Patches pulled off her coat and scrubbed her face and hair clean, then she unpacked the beautiful gown she had made at her step-mother's behest and quickly dressed herself. The gown fit perfectly, as she had known it would, and she made her way downstairs and into the ballroom. As she walked through the room first one, then two, then many more heads turned to look at her, for she was quite the most beautiful girl in attendance, and her dress was more magnificent than any of the guests had ever seen, and the young men flocked around her, clamouring for her to dance with them.
She danced first with a baron's son, then with a young earl who was shy and kept tripping over his own feet, then the Prince himself came and begged the mysterious young lady to favour him with a dance. She smiled then, bright as sunlight, and that was when the Queen happened to glance in their direction, and of course she recognised Patches at once.
Patches danced twice with the Prince, and all the young ladies sighed with jealousy, and the young men laughed ruefully and nudged one another, and everyone agreed that they made a handsome couple. Then the Prince had to dance with the Princess of a neighbouring kingdom, and Patches danced with the heir of a wealthy country squire.
As the dance ended, Patches turned away, and was surprised to find the Queen herself standing behind her.
“What a beautiful dress,” the Queen said, looking the girl over. “I have never seen its equal.” Patches blushed and struggled to find her voice.
“The silk and the pearls both came from China,” she said. “They were specially ordered and brought hither by ship all the way around Africa.”
“Interesting,” was all the Queen said. Then she nodded to the girl and walked back to her throne. Soon after, Patches returned to her room. Hiding her dress, she rubbed dirt onto her face and went to bed.
Patches was even busier the next day, as all the ladies of the castle came begging her to improve their gowns so that they could compete with the mysterious beauty who had stolen the attention of all of the beaus at last night's ball. Patches smiled and chatted with them, and did the best she could with the materials she had, and the ladies went away satisfied, and not one of them suspected her. Patches wondered if the Queen would come to see her as well, but she never did.
On the second night of the celebration, again Patches waited until the ball had started, then washed and dressed herself, and went again to the ballroom. Again, the young men rushed to her side, drawn by her beauty, and this time the Prince claimed her hand for the very first dance. From her throne, the Queen watched them thoughtfully. When the first dance ended the Prince went on to dance with a knight's daughter, then with several ladies of the court. Patches was engaged by a moustachioed army officer, followed by a handsome young cleric. At length, she grew tired and slipped out of the ballroom, heading back to her room.
“Patches,” said the Queen, who was sat waiting for her there. Patches gasped in surprise, but collected her wits enough to drop into a curtsey.
“Your Majesty,” she said. The Queen stood and walked over to her, and ran her hand over the beautiful silk of Patches' dress.
“Is this what you are then?” She asked. Patches laughed.
“Of course not,” she said. “This is just a dress. It doesn't mean anything.” Then she unfastened her gown and let it fall to the floor in a heap, not sparing it a glance. “This is what I am, I think. If it pleases you, Your Majesty.” The Queen's mouth moved once or twice, but no words were spoken. Instead she simply nodded once, sharply. Patches smiled, brighter and more beautiful then ever before. She put out her hand to touch the velvet of the Queen's ballgown. “And is this what you are, Your Majesty?”
Well, soon enough the Queen's dress was on the floor beside the girl's, and by morning they knew one another about as well as any two people can.
On the third night of the celebration neither the Queen nor the mysterious stranger with the magnificent dress made an appearance. But, still, there was wine and food and music, and more than enough pretty girls for the Prince and the other young bucks to dance and flirt with, and no one spared them much thought.
Not long after, the Prince decided to go away to the wars. He fought bravely and well, and at length he married a general's daughter, who loved him and forgave him.
Patches and the Queen lived together very happily for many years, until the day that death parted them, as happens from time to time.
Now the glass is empty, and the tale is done.
---
I might’ve been reading fairy tales earlier today. There are several hundred versions of Cinderella knocking around. I doubt one more will make much difference.
I know we’re all supposed to be practising social distancing and whatnot at the moment, but part of me feels that I should be spending as much time as possible in pubs before they all get forcibly closed for the duration, because odds are half of them will never re-open.
Well, it’s election day in the UK, the happiest time of the year. Okay, so that sentence is only half true, but that’s half more than Boris Johnson ever managed.
Ah, Boris. What can we say about the figure who has done so much to shape British politics in recent years? Any attempt to sum up the character and achievements of the UK’s current Prime Minister would stand a serious chance of breaking the world record for Most Uses of the Word ‘Cunt’ in a Single Paragraph. But in the interests of brevity let us refrain.
Sadly, if the polls are to be believed, we look likely to have to endure Mr Johnson for another few years. Of course, polls have been known to be mistaken in the past, and another hung parliament (my prefered outcome) is certainly within the bounds of possibility, but I’m struggling to muster much optimism. I’ve been disappointed too many times, alas. As the saying goes, hope for the best but prepare for the worst, which is why I’ve made sure to have a couple of reserve bottles in my drinks cupboard.
I said when the election was called that it would be an interesting campaign, but I don’t feel that that prediction has really been borne out. The Tories have played a strictly defensive campaign, and been mostly successful in keeping their man from making any really memorable gaffes, until late enough in the campaign that it probably won’t make much difference. Labour have largely replayed their campaign from 2017 (heavy focus on public services and the NHS), but haven’t built up a head of steam in the way they did two years ago. Meanwhile, the Liberal Democrats, who I thought had a good shot at making gains going into the campaign, have had all the impact of a wet fart.
So anyway, I went to the polling station a few hours ago and did my civic duty, such as it is. As I said, at this point my expectation is that we’ll end up with a Conservative majority, but I’ll be keeping an eye on the results this evening, in the hope that the British voters will prove me wrong. You never know.
An update on UK politics, for foreigners and anyone else with nothing better to do
Well, the UK is going back into general election mode, with the vote scheduled for 12th December. Anyone who tries to tell you how it will all turn out is, obviously, full of shit. At the moment, the polls favour the Conservatives, but if the next few weeks campaigning gets even a fraction as chaotic as seems likely, that could change very, very easily.
That said, there are a few observations worth making at the outset. The first is that an upset on the scale of the last snap election in 2017, where Theresa May went from a massive lead at the outset to losing her majority, seems unlikely. On that occasion the Conservatives found themselves contending with two terrorist attacks during the campaign, a disastrous manifesto, and a leader with the charisma of a cardboard cut-out daubed with cowshit. None of those factors is likely to apply in the coming campaign.
Meanwhile, the fact that, after two and a half years of the Tory Party offering a steady diet of chaos, infighting, and frequent, catastrophic failure, the Labour Party is still trailing behind in the polls, should caution one against expecting major gains for Her Majesty's Opposition. To do him justice, Jeremy Corbyn, while horrendously ill-suited to leading a major political party, is a strong campaigner when he can talk about the causes he's passionate about. Unfortunate, then, that this election is likely to focus almost entirely on Brexit, a subject about which he quite plainly doesn't give a single fuck, except to wish that it would just go away. I suspect that the best case scenario for Labour is that they'll be able to hold onto the gains they made in 2017.
If anyone is going to ruin Boris Johnson's day, it's likely to be the smaller parties. The Liberal Democrats have done a good job of positioning themselves as the standard bearers for remaining in the European Union, and stand a good chance of picking up seats in remain-voting constituencies that are turned off by the Conservatives' ever-harder take on Brexit, and unconvinced by Labour's confused and incoherent position. In Scotland, the Conservatives have lost their best electoral asset now that Ruth Davidson, the former leader of the Scottish Conservatives, has stood down. The whole sorry Brexit mess has given a fresh impetus to the Scottish Nationalists quest for independence, and it will be surprising if they don't take seats from the Tories north of the border.
If I were to guess, I'd say that the most likely results are either a slim Conservative majority, or a hung Parliament (and I would certainly prefer the latter). If there's one factor that could swing it either way, it's Nigel Farage's Brexit Party. If they decide to run a full, nationwide election campaign, it's likely that they'll end up taking more votes from the Conservatives than the other parties, which could mean the difference between victory and defeat in some key constituencies. If they take a more co-operative approach to the Tories and focus their campaigning in leave-supporting Labour seats in the north of England where Farage's populist anti-immigrant stance polls well, they could help Boris Johnson get over the line and win a majority. Ultimately, it depends on what matters more to Farage, Brexit or his own ego. It could go either way.
Well, Theresa May has finally realised what everyone else knew months ago: that her efforts to bring about Brexit has been a crashing failure, and that her personal political authority, never especially great since the 2017 snap election cost her majority, had entirely evaporated. So she’s going, and she will not be missed.
Does this make anything better? Not particularly. Useless as she was, the candidates likely to replace her are even worse. Fanatical where she at least tried for pragmatism, mendacious and self-serving without the sense of duty she occasionally exhibited, and even less likely to build the kind of political consensus that might - just might - resolve the whole asinine brexit kerfuffle in anything other than an almighty collapse.
What it really means is that the next couple of months will be taken up with all the many, many aspiring tory leaders gleefully knifing each other (not, alas, fatally), as we drift onwards to the current brexit deadline in October, followed by even more of the political paralysis we’ve been enjoying for the last year, because whoever is in charge, the mathematics of the House of Commons will still be the same.
Still, bye-bye Theresa. Do let the door hit you on the way out.
