Archive for the ‘literature’ Category
I marked the 10th anniversary of our old slippers of a book group by listing all that we had read to that auspicious date. The personnel is remarkably stable, adding members very rarely, so to herald the arrival of my friend Martin Bright I am updating the list:
- In the Country of Men – Hisham Matar (Jun 15)
- The Bone Clocks – David Mitchell * (Apr 15)
- The Narrow Road to the Deep North – Richard Flanagan (Mar 15)
- Oblivion – David Foster Wallace (Nov 14)
- The Leopard – Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa (Sep 14)
- What Was Promised – Tobias Hill (Jun 14)
- Stoner – John Williams * (Apr 14)
- Rabbit at Rest – John Updike *** (Feb 14)
- Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage – Alice Munro (Dec 13)
- May We Be Forgiven – A. M. Homes (Nov 13)
- Irretrievable -Theodor Fontane (Sept 13)
- Wise Men -Stuart Nadler (July 13)
- Bring out the Bodies – Hilary Mantel (March 13)
- Yellow Birds – Kevin Powers (Jan 13)
- There’s no such thing as a free press – Mick Hume (Dec 12)
- Love and Summer – William Trevor (Nov 12)
- The Uncoupling – Meg Wolitzer (July 12)
- A Death in the Family – Karl Ove Knausgaard (May 12)
- Nemesis – Philip Roth ** (April 12)
- Old School – Tobias Wolff (March 12)
- A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court – Mark Twain (Jan 12)
- the first ten years
Today is Record Shop Day. I’ve been frequenting mine (Alan’s in East Finchley) plenty recently so I’m just making an internal nod to indy record shops and I’ve just played a classic record Spiral Scratch by (the) Buzzcocks (albeit not on vinyl, I’m in the wrong room) – the track I played is Boredom because I’ve been thinking about it a lot yesterday and today.
I’m living in this movie
But it doesn’t move me
I’m the man that’s waiting for the phone to ring
Hear it ring-a-ding-a-fucking-ding
You know me, I’m acting dumb
You know the scene, very humdrum
Boredom, boredom, boredom
I was just out jogging, listening to a podcast with Irish writer John Banville talking about Raymond Chandler and Philip Marlowe. Banville, under his low-brow pen-name Benjamin Black (which I don’t much like – as fake as they come, a bit like Julian Barnes’ Dan Kavanagh), recently wrote a Marlowe book at the request of Chandler’s estate, The Black-Eyed Blonde. Marlowe stories usually start with the gumshoe sitting bored in his down-at-heel office waiting for something to happen, usually a dame walking through the door to give him a knight-errant mission.
Then late last night I was listening to a radio programme from BBC Radio 4 called The Buchan Tradition about John Buchan, marking the centenary year of The 39 Steps. Richard Hannay is bored in London at the start of that ripping yarn when lo and behold a spy dies on his living room carpet and the adventure begins.
That’s also often the case with Sherlock Holmes – he’s bored out of his brain, coked off his face, ennui has well and truly set in when a character shows up at 221b with a juicy mystery to solve.
One of my favourites, a resident of The Shelf of Honour, The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers, opens with the protagonist bored in the “dead and fermenting city”, London in the dog-days of late summer. When the opportunity crops up to sail around the Baltic and North Sea coasts, in spitting distance of imperial Germany, with an English eccentric in an Aran jumper, it’s the perfect cure not just to boredom, but also to the complacency and materialism of modern life. One of my favourite scenes is when Carruthers, the narrator, can’t fit his trunk through the opening into the Dulcibella, the boat he is due to go off for a trip in and he has to dump most of his stuff (which he never really needed).
Recently I watched again one of my all-time favourite movies, Apocalypse Now, with Enfant Terrible No. 1 (a convert to The Godfather movies). Damn it’s good. Great. Nearly perfect. It opens with Captain Willard (Martin Sheen) bored to near-death in a hotel room in Saigon. Waiting for a mission.
Saigon…shit. I’m only in Saigon.
Every time, I think I’m gonna wake up back in the jungle.
I’m here a week now. Waiting for a mission. Getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker. And every minute Charlie squats in the bush…he gets stronger. Each time I looked around…the walls moved in a little tighter.
There’s boredom as debilitating ennui as in Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal. But there’s also boredom as a motivator, a prompt into adventure. The question is whether in real life the blonde walks through the door or the spy expires on your carpet? Does the ring-a-ding-a-fucking-ding really come?
I’ve been in a book group with some old school friends and a motley crew of other geezers for 13 and a bit years now. Here is a summary of our first 10 years. Well it’s my turn to choose the book again now – it takes 18-24 months for the honour to come round these days so you can’t take it lightly. I put a call out to social media friends for books that had really changed their lives or ways of seeing the world. Loads of interesting suggestions came in and rather than let them fade away in the ephemeral world of Facebook etc. I thought I’d save them here so other people in other book groups/book clubs/reading groups could make use of the titles. (The quotations are from the friends making the suggestions.)
- Out Stealing Horses – Per Petterson
- Crossing to Safety, Wallace Stegner
- A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mistry
- My brilliant friend – Elena Ferrante
- Random Family – Adrian Nicole LeBlanc
- Kevin Barry’s City Of Bohane
- Don de Lillo’s Underworld
- Marquez’ Love in the Time of Cholera
- Fugitive Pieces, Anne Michaels – “made me think differently about how the past shapes your present/future and how as individuals we get to choose if the negative parts of our past consume our futures or not. It is also beautifully written and made me revisit poetry too.” “it is the book that taught me how beautiful words can be”
- Middlesex – Jeffrey Eugenides
- The social animal – David Brooks
- Do No Harm – Henry Marsh
- Andre Agassi’s “Open”
- The Life of Lazarillo de Tormes and of His Fortunes and Adversities
- Us – David Nicholls
- Amongst Women by John McGahern
- Malloy by Samuel Beckett
- The Master by Colm Tóibín
- The Country Girls by Edna O’ Brien
- Foster by Claire Keegan
- At Swim Two Birds by Flann O’ Brien
- The Quest for Corvo – AJA Symons
- Good Behaviour by Molly Keane
- Birchwood by John Banville
- How Many Miles to Babylon by Jennifer Johnston
- The Speckled People by Hugo Hamilton
- Love’s Work – Gillian Rose
- The History of History – Ida Hatemer-Higgins
- Inventing God, Nicholas Mosley – “felt my mind shifting on religion/geopolitics/Middle East. God as the greatest invention of humankind. Humanist but generous to those who have faith – a gentle riposte to the Hitchens/Dawkins approach. In a novel.”
- A window for one year – John Irving
- A Prayer for Owen Meany – John Irving – “love, friendship and sacrifice”
- Wild, Cheyl Strayed
- Dracula – Bram Stoker
- The Sisters Brothers – Patrick deWitt
- Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad
- For whom the bell tolls – Ernest Hemingway
- To the End of the Land, David Grossman
- Cat’s Eye by Margaret Atwood – “felt the terror of teenage girls when read and re-read both as a teenage girl/40 yr old woman”
- The Crossing by Cormac McCarthy – “felt the power and grace of the quiet man”
- Things Fall Apart – Chinwe Achebe
- Cory Doctorow’s Little Brother “Made me respect young people more”
- A Thousand Splendid Suns – Khaled Hosseini
- The Mezzanine by Nicolson Baker “It’s very short, very unlikely and some in the group will HATE it and for others it’ll change the way they look at the world around them. You’ll never see perforations or a straw in a fizzy drink the same way again.”
- Margaret Atwood’s The Edible Woman – “had a huge influence on my going to university and recognising the need to never find oneself in a position where you are wholly reliant on a man. All teenage girls should read it.”
- William Leith’s The Hungry Years “taught me how not to be a food addict”
- Cervantes’ Don Quixote “taught me to rely on my inner compass rather than external signage.”
- Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow “showed me that our personal interpretation is where the colour and joy of the world are to be found, but to keep it just shy of solipsism”
- Alexander Trocchi’s Cain’s Book “became my personal cultural key to unlocking New York”
- Stoner – John Williams
- Steppenwolf – Hermann Hesse “made me see my middle class/ inner animal struggle in a clear & cleansing light, Damn you Herman Hesse!”
- Plumed serpent, D. H. Lawrence – “opening to the mythic underbelly”
- Henry James’s ‘The Portrait of a Lady’ “because his characters are so compelling and so flawed. Our heroine’s youthful arrogance and stubbornness sees her turn down suitors because she values above all her freedom, only to find herself trapped in a way she could not have imagined. I was excited at her prospects and I feared for her. There were other characters I was rooting for too! Having re-read it more than 20 years later, I was interested and surprised to find I had more compassion for some characters I disliked intensely and impatience for those I felt sympathy for when I read it as a teenager. A truly astonishing, complex masterpiece.”
- The Book Thief – Markus Zusak
- Cormac McCarthy’s The Road “is the most piercing book I’ve read. The description of the trials faced by the father and son has stayed with me for years.”
- 1984 – George Orwell – “”We are the dead” “You are the dead” stopped me in my 13 year old tracks. Never saw it coming”
- Thomas Pynchon’s Against The Day – “because it really does require you to take a big chunk out of your life to read it – Rams home the idea that reading is subversive: stops you working, earning, socialising and kinda does stop time.”
- A fraction of the whole – Steve toltz
- Douglas Coupland’s ‘Microserfs’
- Be Here Now – Ram Dass
- Brave New World – Aldous Huxley
- The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom
- The english and their history by Robert tombs – “Amazing and definitive book that filled in every gap for me in understanding where we live and why it is how it is”
- The Spinoza Problem by Irvin Yalom “Despite the title, it’s a real page turner. Yalom goes back and forth between Spinoza and Rosenberg (part of Hitler’s propoganda machine). My book club had a fantastic discussion.”
- Delusions of Gender: How Our Minds, Society, and Neurosexism Create Difference by Cordelia Fine
- Humanity: A Moral History of The 20th Century by Professor Jonathan Glover
- Lolita -Vladimir Nabokov
- The Bone People by Keri Hulme
- Homage To Catalonia – George Orwell
- The Unbearable Lightness of Beingby Milan Kundera
- The Wind-up Bird Chronicle -Haruki Murakami – “Extraordinary writing that made me see the world differently”
- Strangers on a Train – Patricia Highsmith
- Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier
- House of Leaves – Mark Z. Danielewski
- Angel by Elizabeth Taylor
Again, thanks to all those who kindly contributed to the list.
In the end I opted for The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell (partly because I thought Cloud Atlas was something pretty special). Will report back on how it goes.
A friend of mine, Carol, (aka The Naked Novelist) via my bestman Stuart, passed on a challenge this week: to list the 10 books that have had the most impact on my life. So that’s impact, not my favourite 10.
Here’s my stab at it…
1. ‘Here We Go’ – the Janet and John book I learnt to read with: “Look, Janet, look!”
3. ‘Paradise Lost’ Books 1 & 2, John Milton ed. John Broadbent – the poetry’s pretty damn good but the footnotes were a revelation – it helped me realise school subjects are artificial divisions and everything’s connected to everything else. “Of man’s disobedience and the fruit of that forbidden tree…”
5. ‘The Dinosaur Strain’, Mark Brown – got me into the subject of Creative Thinking, led to me making a computer game (MindGym) and ultimately to writing my own book about Creativity, ‘When Sparks Fly’ (5/8 finished, interviewed Jamie Oliver for it today)
6. ‘Romeo and Juliet’, Shakey – emblematic of the year I had an inspiring teacher (English teacher of course – Mr Fitch RIP MA Cantab) who got me really reading
7. ‘The Riddle of the Sands’, Erskine Childers – made me realise what a burden material possessions can be in the scene where the protagonist can’t get his trunk into the sailing boat and has to dump all his shit on the quay
If it’s not too Neknominate, please do share your Top Impact 10 below (or a link to it)…
Can you imagine the looks on the two teenage faces when their mother tells them that she is going to invite people round to the house every eight weeks to sing in the back room …and say poems …and read stuff? WTF?! And she wants you boys to join in. You can just listen but you’re to be there. WTFF?!! On Saturday night the second such session took place. Enfant Terrible No. 2 engineered a sleep-over. No. 1 actually showed his face at the end after a no-show eight weeks earlier.
Here’s what was on the menu…
Una opened with a Spring theme reading Wordsworth’s Daffodils. The next morning this Wordsworth quote arrived by serendipity in my InBox (7th April being his birthday, in 1770):
The best portion of a good man’s life: his little, nameless unremembered acts of kindness and love.
Later she read one of her own poems, Bodies, a moving and intimate Heaneyesque account of dressing her father’s body for his wake. Towards the end she read another of her pieces, Underground, inspired by a Northern Line encounter and written on the spot.
Here are two of my own recent Northern Line encounters:
For my contribution this time I read one of my favourite posts from this blog, Starless and Bible Black, and then the passage from James Joyce’s Ulysses to which it refers. It’s when the two protagonists have an outdoor piss together under the night sky, all done in the form of a catechism, and containing that very special line:
THE HEAVENTREE OF STARS HUNG WITH HUMID NIGHTBLUE FRUIT.
At the first session I read the opening of the first chapter of my book in progress, When Sparks Fly, about Allen Ginsberg. I concluded with a Ginsberg poem referencing the same incident mentioned in the first line of the book.
Joyce linked nicely to the next person up, an actress specialising in Beckett (who was Joyce’s secretary) – she read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot (whose masterpiece, The Wasteland, was published seven years later in 1922, the same year as Ulysses).
She also recited from memory a brilliant poem of her own about her days as a ballet dancer and how that went down in the Midlands of Ireland. And as if that wasn’t delight enough, she sang a powerful Sinead O’Connor song (from Universal Mother I think). And then a song in Irish about a boy from Loch Erne (Buachaill ón Eirne).
All the music and much of the rest of the singing came from our friend Patmo and his gee-tar. Highlight for me was a song about the potboy in the Dorset Arms in Stockwell where we used to go to watch Patmo and his band The Stone Rangers play. It’s called Put one in the tank for Frank and celebrates plying the late lamented Frank Murphy with beer to get access to the storeroom with all their gear in it. He also played Una’s favourite of his songs, A Little Bit of Lace (as immortalised on Adie Dunbar and the Jonahs’ Two Brothers), as well as some classic singalongs from Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon to John Denver’s Country Road (some painful, submerged teenage memories there from the height of the punk era but surprisingly enjoyable all these years later).
Our old friend Roddy read from a great early 60s first edition he has of Brendan Behan’s Island, a beautifully illustrated (by Paul Hogarth) travelogue around the old country. His other half, Alex, also by coincidence a former ballet dancer, read some Yeats love poetry (it was an evening of the Irish reading the English, and vice versa – perfect to herald the week which sees poet and president Michael D Higgins making a state visit to London, on the very day (8th April) Gladstone presented his first Home Rule Bill to Parliament in 1886). Alex closed proceedings with a parting shot of Dorothy Parker.
All in all, a pretty darn good evening (and that’s not counting the Connemara whiskey and fresh homemade soup).
Dorothy Parker, when asked what she’d like for breakfast…
Just something light and easy to fix. How about a dear little whiskey sour?
Another bitty day but progress was made. Kicked off with some Channel 4 work looking forward to to 2014, meeting a sports presenter to further develop a really interesting idea we began kicking around a couple of months ago. From there I walked along a golden Malet Street past the University of London to the British Library where I installed myself in the Anthropology Library to work on the music project prompted by my interview with Jon King of Gang of Four yesterday. Got a few ideas down to start to set the scope and whacked them over to my radio friend. Then settled down to process my notes from the David Amram phone interview last night – mainly making sure it’s all legible in the long run.
Finished off my initial research into Sylvia Beach over a bowl of hot Greek bean soup in RADAland, sitting next to two glamorous, screwed-up actresses discussing boyfriend trouble and CBT experiences – in other words, very good quality eavesdropping material. The Beach research touched on her time in Savoy and mentioned Chambery where I went to university for a year, a not oft-mentioned town.
Once back home I gave Malcolm Garrett a ring to set up an in-person interview with him about Tony Wilson & Manchester. Malcolm, who I know through working together on the BAFTA Interactive Entertainment committee, is the excellent designer behind the Buzzcocks record sleeves among many others, so first entered my life in the form of the silver and orange cover of Another Music in a Different Kitchen which delighted the teenage me. Rounded off things by getting in touch with Barry Miles, biographer and friend of Allen Ginsberg.
Took off for Chalk Farm on that note, the work day ended, to see the opening of an exhibition of photos of Andy Warhol (who I loathe and consider the opposite of Ginsberg – I wrote a scene about their meeting out back in a New York club where Ginsberg cut the twat neatly down to size in his own gentle way) and Edie Sedgwick (who, from the vaguest memory I have of the book I wrote about her – oops, Freudian slip, read about her I consider somehow tragic, like Basquiat and all the other cowardly damage Warhol left in his wake). It was at my friend/associate Alex Proud’s gallery in The Stables, an extravagantly large space, not really the right shape but different and fun.
From there to the 10th anniversary party of mySociety, a digital agency I admire hugely which is why I sacrificed the Channel 4 Christmas do to it (which was conveniently and teasingly beside the Stables) and trekked off to Mozilla in St Martin’s Lane to see Tom Steinberg and crew. And that I’ll leave for my next post…
Ten years in the life of a London book group…
Atonement – Ian McEwan (Nov 2001) *
Oxygen – Andrew Miller (Dec 01)
The Corrections – Jonathan Franzen (Jan 02) ***
Stupid White Men – Michael Moore (Mar 02)
Rings of Saturn – WG Sebald (Apr 02)
The Year of the Goat – Mario Vargas Llosa (Jun 02)
Twelve Bar Blues – Patrick Neate (Sep 02)
Swann’s Way – Marcel Proust ??? (Oct 02)
Life of Pi – Yann Martel (Jan 03) *
A Fine Balance – Rohan Mistry (Mar 03)
Light of Day – Graham Swift (May 03)
After the Quake – Haruki Murakami (June 03)
Code of the Woosters- PG Wodehouse (July 03) **
Voyage au bout de la Nuit – Celine (Sept 03)
Revolutionary Road – Richard Yates (Oct 03)
Tomorrow’s People – Susan Greenfield (Dec 03)
Touching the Void – Joe Simpson (Jan O4)
Vernon God Little – DBC Pierre (March 04) **
Elizabeth Costello – J. M. Coetzee (April 04)
The Comedians -Graham Greene (June 04)
The Line of Beauty – Alan Hollinghurst (Sept 04)
Clear – Nicola Barker (Nov 04)
Havoc in its Third Year -Ronan Bennett (Dec 04)
The Plot against America – Philip Roth (Jan 05)
A Heart so White – Javier Marias (March 05)
A Tale of Love and Darkness – Amos Oz (April 05) **
Saturday – Ian McEwan (June 05)
The Radetzky March – Joseph Roth (July 05)
Identity -Milan Kundera (Sept 05)
Oryx and Crake – Margaret Atwood (Nov 05) **
We need to talk about Kevin – Lionel Shriver (Dec 05)
The Kite Runner – Khaled Hosseini (Jan 06)
Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell (March 06) ***
Prague – Arthur Phillips (May 06)
Things Fall Apart – Chinua Achebe (July 06)
Kalooki Nights – Howard Jacobson (Sept 06) **
People’s Act of Love – James Meek (Nov 06)
The Woman in White – Wilkie Collins (Jan 07) **
The Secret River – Kate Grenville (Mar 07)
Homo Faber -Max Frisch (May 07)
My Name is Red – Orhan Pamuk (Sep 07)
Run Rabbit Run – John Updike (Nov 07)
In Cold Blood – Truman Capote (Jan 08)
Blindness – José Saramago (Feb 08)
What Sport Tells Us About Life – Ed Smith (May 08)
The Enchantress of Florence – Salman Rushdie (Jul 08)
The Yiddish Policemen’s Union – Michael Chabon (Sep 08) **
Engleby – Sebastian Faulks (Nov 08)
Homecoming – Bernhard Schlink (Jan 09)
Audacity of Hope – Barrack Obama (Feb 09)
Oscar Wao – Juan Diaz (Apr 09) *
Humboldt’s Gift – Saul Bellow (Jun 09)
Scoop – Evelyn Waugh ** (Nov 09)
Pnin – Nabokov (Jan 10)
Therese Raquin – Emile Zola (Mar 10)
The Razor’s Edge – Somerset Maugham (May 10)*
The Death of Ivan Ilyich / Kreuzer Sonata – Tolstoy (Jul 10)
Alone in Berlin – Hans Fallada (Aug 10)
Freedom – Jonathan Franzen (Sep 10) *
Byzantium Endures – Michael Moorcock (Jan 11)
The Bottle Factory Outing – Beryl Bainbridge (Mar 11)
The Heather Blazing – Colm Toibin (Apr 11)
The Tunnel – William H. Gass (Jun 11)
Manhattan Transfer – John Dos Passos (Aug 11)
The Sisters Brothers – Patrick deWitt (Oct 11)*
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court – Mark Twain (Nov 2011)
John Martyn. Herbert Lom. DH Lawrence. Mick Talbot. Pierre de Ronsard. And me. We all share one thing – a birthday on 9/11, that date now with a resonance all of its own. Each year I wait for some low-life to blacken it again. This year I’m a little more worried than usual on account of the round number.
10 years ago today I was out for my birthday lunch with colleagues/friends from Redbus CPD, the internet start-up whose production department I was running for the couple of years before I came to Channel 4. They gave me two lovely presents which have a certain emblematic quality for me looking back. One was a book about London, Peter Ackroyd’s biography of the city. The other was the brand new record by Bob Dylan, Love and Theft, released on that very day. So Literature and Music, two of my greatest loves and essentially the opposite of 9/11. Creative. Fueled by Love. What makes life worth living. One of my sons is called Dylan so I take the latter as a reflection also of Family. And I’m a real Londonphile, born&bred here (I’d bear a London passport if they’d let me), so the former also captures the notion of Home. Music and Literature, Home and Family, Work and Friendship – I was basking in it all as we headed back down the appropriately named Arcadia Avenue back to the office. It was around 2pm.
As we settled back to work one of my business partners called us all into the boardroom to watch something incredible playing out on the big TV. A plane had crashed into the World Trade Centre. I knew the building from when I spent a semester at high school in Montclair, New Jersey and visited the iconic twin towers for the first time. As we were trying to absorb the images a second plane appeared and the rest is history.
I went out for my planned birthday dinner that evening in Camden Town with my wife, brother, sister-in-law and my oldest friend (we’ve known each other since we were six). The pall of the day’s events hung over our meal and I imagine everyone around the table was as numb as I felt. My stomach was in bits.
Over the years since I’ve felt a degree of outrage at having my birth date appropriated by such a dark and soulless act. And I’m not giving it over. This side of the water it’s 11/9 and this year’s a special palindromic one 11-9-11. 11/9 is about Music, Literature, Home, Family, Creativity and Friendship. It’s about New York and London. It’s about Soul (John Martyn), Laughter (Herbert Lom), Passion (DH Lawrence), Groove (Mick Talbot), and Poetry (Pierre de Ronsard). It’s about Birth and Life and what makes life worth living.
Although I’ve kicked off various articles in Wikipedia including the ones on User-Generated Content (in 2005 when UGC was still quite new and shiny) and on Bryn’s sister Daphne, I’m having a bit of trouble with the Wikinazis with this one so I’ll just stick it here for now and the self-appointed UGC You Next Tuesdays can spend their time on some other self-important pedantry. In the meantime the upside of this article is that I’ve met two charming, very interesting women through it – a novelist and a movie producer, the latter a direct descendant of Bryn.
”’Brynhild Olivier”’ (1887 – 13th January 1935, known as Bryn) was the second daughter of [[Sydney Haldane Olivier]], 1st Baron Olivier, and Margaret Cox; she was sister of Margery (1886-1974), Daphne (1889-1950) and [[Noel Olivier|Noel]] (1893-1969). She was a member of [[Rupert Brooke]]’s circle before the First World War and associated with the [[Bloomsbury Group]]. She was a prominent member of the group of young, socialist youth dubbed ‘the Neo-Pagans’ by [[Virginia Woolf]] and as such significantly influenced the development of Brooke.
She was usually the manager of the Neo-Pagan camps where the circle gathered for outdoor pursuits like climbing, bathing and hiking. Campers included the likes of [[Lytton Strachey]], [[John Maynard Keynes]], [[Geoffrey Keynes]] and [[Gerald Shove]]. The camp at Clifford Bridge in Dartmoor in August 1911 was referred to as ‘Bloomsbury under canvas’.
Although Brooke was in love with herPaul Delany. ”The Neo-Pagans – Friendship and Love in the Rupert Brooke Circle”. (1987 Macmillan London) p.173., she ended up marrying art historian [[A. E. Popham]] (Arthur Ewart Hugh Popham, known as Hugh) in 1912 (becoming Brynhild Popham). Hugh Popham was a friend of Rupert Brooke and worked in the Prints Department of the British Museum.[http://janus.lib.cam.ac.uk/db/node.xsp?id=EAD%2FGBR%2F0272%2FPP%2FPOP The Papers of Hugh and Brynhild (Olivier) Popham]They were divorced in 1924. She married F. R. N. Sherrard in 1924 (becoming Brynhild Sherrard).[http://thepeerage.com/p24033.htm The Peerage]
She was the mother of Anne Olivier Popham, who became the wife of art historian and writer [[Quentin Bell]]. She was also the mother of the poet, translator and theologian [[Philip Sherrard|Philip Owen Arnould Sherrard]] (born 23 September 1922, Oxford). She had six children in all – three with each husband. Her first child Hugh Anthony was born in March 1914, followed by daughter Anne Olivier and son Tristram.
Brynhild was the first of the four Olivier sisters the poet Rupert Brooke met[http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=mXu7AAAAIAAJ&pg=PA25&lpg=PA25&dq=Brynhild+Olivier&source=bl&ots=na0q3BPgWR&sig=Ix1Rk9UezcB7Nv1bofbRiWqc-zk&hl=en&ei=cBjsTYXeBs6DhQej4sm6Bg&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=9&ved=0CFwQ6AEwCA#v=onepage&q=Brynhild%20Olivier&f=false Caesar, Adrian. ”Taking it like a man: suffering, sexuality, and the war poets.”(1993 Manchester University Press) p.25.]. Although she was reputedly the most beautiful, it was her sister Noel Olivier for whom Brooke fell. [[Jacques Raverat]] described her as having ‘the startled beauty of a nymph taken by surprise’.
Brynhild trained as a jeweller. She was first cousin of the actor [[Laurence Olivier]].
*Delany, Paul. ”The Neo-Pagans – Friendship and Love in the Rupert Brooke Circle.” Macmillan. London. 1987. ISBN 0-333-44572-4 (hc)
*Caesar, Adrian. ”Taking it like a man: suffering, sexuality, and the war poets.” Manchester University Press. Manchester. 1993. ISBN 0-7190-3834-0
*[http://auden.stanford.edu/cgi-bin/auden/individual.php?pid=I11262&ged=auden-bicknell.ged W.H. Auden – ‘Family Ghosts’]
*[http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/A2A/records.aspx?cat=272-misc30&cid=28-3#28-3 Papers in the National Archives]