Archive for November, 2013

Pen Portraits- RL Stevenson
Beset for much of his life by ill health, it would have been excusable if Robert Louis Stevenson had retreated into imagination and lived his days in story and poem. He chose another route, travelling the Cévennes accompanied by a donkey, living in an abandoned mine in California with a divorcee 10 years older than him, and settling eventually with her in Samoa, where the locals christened him “Tusitala”, the teller of tales.

Stevenson had been born into smothering conformity. The rationalism and propriety of Edinburgh’s New Town were not to his liking, and he did not want to enter the family business of lighthouse engineer. Having qualified as a lawyer, he found his true self in writing, and proved a master of diverse forms such as poetry for children (A Child’s Garden of Verses), adventure stories for all ages (Treasure Island, Kidnapped) and chilling psychological horror (Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde). He trusted to reveries, saying “brownies” (spirits) had brought Jekyll and Hyde to him in a dream – albeit a dream affected by the experimental medication he was on at the time.

His most famous book owes a debt to a real-life Edinburgh character, William Brodie, who was gentleman by day and miscreant by night. The young Stevenson knew that a wardrobe in his bedroom had been crafted by Brodie. Bed-bound by childhood ailments, he had also peered down into the gardens below, imagining seas and islands and mysteries to be unravelled.(ack: RLS- My Hero/Ian Rankin-The Guardian of June,8.2012)
When one reads the nonfiction work of Robert Louis Stevenson along with the novels and short stories, a more complete portrait emerges of the author than that of the romantic vagabond one usually associates with his best-known fiction. The Stevenson of the nonfiction prose is a writer involved in the issues of his craft, his milieu, and his soul. Moreover, one can see the record of his maturation in critical essays, political tracts, biographies, and letters to family and friends. What Stevenson lacks, especially for the tastes of this age, is specificity and expertise: he has not the depth of such writers as John Ruskin, Walter Pater, or William Morris. But he was a shrewd observer of humankind, and his essays reveal his lively and perspicacious mind. Though he lacked originality, he created a rapport with the reader, who senses his enthusiastic embrace of life and art. If Stevenson at first wrote like one who only skimmed the surface of experience, by the end of his life he was passionately committed to his adopted land of Samoa, to his own history, and to the creation of his fiction.(www.people.brandeis.edu)
He died on Dec.3,1894

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Sorry; this is published elsewhere. The Wow-Wow Tales CreateSpace.com

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Sorry This story continues in The Wow-Wow Tales pub. CreateSpace.com


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I am the one who made a hole

In the dark river of wasted splendor:

I would have made an end

But was too light to dimple

The infinite passage of time-

Time goes on and on, impervious

To wails of wasted souls

fed on senses ephemeral;


I could have made a run for high,

But clouds were forests on fire

Afloat and ever willy-nilly

Lit up by something far beyond my grasp;

Blanched before the incandescence

My eyes got used to settled

Habits of flowing as day will:

Ah  I creep back to my paper and slippers

I will neither go up nor down

Time’s wary watch must

From its own ranks find relief.



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Bless’d be the One who with grace infinite

Steel’d a heart to hear and do what is right;

Whence did then come this thirst to pass the hour

Or look upon death’s icy cold hands with fright?

(freely translated from Edward FitzGerald-The Rubaiyat)



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Mild is the weather and yet death has come:

You did think life was a wheel on the go,

Run run run, hitch a ride till kingdom come


 If death is at the door ask not where from:

Break up the wall, let space from within flow

Outwards till cosmos be plumbed: your home.


Seek not how you found life nor left for whom:

Death is a damn fool who shall never know

Taste from touch, much less dram from dream.


Mild is the weather and yet death has come:

You did think life was a wheel on the go,

Run run run, hitch a ride till kingdom come

Hasten not to look for your dream nor home.


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Out of earth did the Maker knead the man

And showed the heaven and stars to scan:

How long he shall sit here in silent awe

And stare at the earthen bowl and groan?

benny- free translation of Edward FitzGerald

Thus it was to this earthen jar I reckon’d
My secret, in its ample hold to be found.
But the porous jar spoke: death is the end:
Life sober and dry is not life jocund.

Variation: kit’ah
The spirited spout by its very shape
Gives somewhat a hint that it holds within;
‘Peer not in confusion of mouth agape
Drink deep and learn of me,’ so says the urn

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Good night,good night! farting is such sweet relief

And my love is stone deaf beyond all belief. (Romeo and Juliet)


I wish I could remember the first kiss

First dime, first moment I broke the casino;

If bright or dim the dollar,- it trebles

Come Summer or winter I can add

My worth in hard currency,Oh boy! 

What on earth is this first kiss-

Damn well I know what is in a kiss

But without the face to go by I rather

fall back on what I can count and add up.

(The first day-Christina Rossetti)


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If I should buy think this of me:

That there is a sucker born every hour

Such is our misbegotten world of mart:

One euro I dole out, -sweat, blood and toil

Have in this bit of my manhood consumed,

And what for I throw it all away, think it, sir?

I seek not your wares, trifles as they are

But for one bit of euro our zero lives tangle

And quarter of an hour I may hold a man

And look with no rancor, disgust or pity.


Original version:

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there’s some corner of a foreign field

That is forever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,… 


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