Anna Akhmatova

I'm reading the poems of Anna Akhmatova (in translation; I'm learning Russian, but not that quickly!) I don't know much about Russian poetry (other than a little bit about Formalist criticism) so am trying to learn, and was very interested by the introduction which mentions that she was part of the Acemist movement, or Guild of Poets, formed in Russia in 1910. Apparently the Acemists had had enough of Symbolism, and wanted concrete images, bringing poets and poetry back to earth, as it were. Their aim was "direct expression through images", as their manifesto, The Morning of Acmeism suggests.
Akhmatova's poetry is enthralling - unlike anything I've ever read. I'm sure it's partly due to translation issues (and I am planning to get my Russian good enough to read it in the original) but the poems seem to have a flavour of haiku, not just in their preoccupation with the natural world but also their conciseness and lack of high-flown sentiment. Acmeism seems to me to be a readily identifiable movement through this. (If "acme" means "the highest point", I suppose their intention was that this would be the peak of Russian poetry).
The poem 'The Guest' (1914) is both terrifying (in a very Gothic way) and quite concrete in its images; amazing how Akhmatova creates a sinister atmosphere without symbol or surface emotion. Apparently she was attacked by the Soviet state who claimed that the "mists of loneliness and hopelessness [were] alien to Soviet literature". Yet she created these mists from the materials of the world around her, like a sorcerer conjuring up a genie from a lantern. Both this and the haiku-nature of her poetry is illustrated in 'Parting', one of her many poems about love and loss:
Evening, sloping
path before me.
Only yesterday, in love -
he implored, 'Don't forget.'
Now only the winds
and the cries of the shepherds.
The cedars in uproar
by the clean springs.
(Trans. Richard McKane)

Cezanne at the Courtauld

Somehow I'd kind of forgotten about Cezanne until I went to the Courtauld on Monday (tip: free before 2pm on Mondays). The Cezannes were familiar to me, since I studied there (briefly, ten years ago) but somehow Cezanne seems so refreshingly new every time you look at those fresh greens and blues. Apart from the Montaigne Sainte Victoire, which I find strangely bleak. Anyway, this exhibition has letters from Cezanne talking about his art, how he works, and so on, and the collection of his works - paintings and drawings - alongside his words is both revealing and appealing.

Lac D'Annecy is wonderful - somehow Gothic and geometric, representative and realistic simultaneously. The notice adds that this view from the French border of Switzerland was painted by "young lady travellers", but Cezanne turns it into something quite different, and far removed from the delicate watercolours of a nineteenth-century young lady's album. For me this was the central piece of the exhibition (others would certainly disagree!) but what he painted was, as he said, "a harmony parallel to nature". I like the musical analogy; it isn't nature, but it's in harmony with it. Surely that's what art should be - after all, not only is it not the real thing, it both can't be and shouldn't be. This painting is Cezanne's own idiosyncratic take on nature, and a harmony is exactly what it is.

Votes for Women!

I've just finished a fascinating book, The Militant Suffragettes, by Antonia Raeburn. Given my occasional feminist ramblings, it's shocking that my knowledge of the Suffragettes was basically gleaned from a couple of novels and Mary Poppins, but this book filled the void (not sure if it's still in print though). Amazing to think that it's less than a century since women got the vote in the UK (women, if you don't vote EVERY time you have the opportunity, you should be ashamed of yourselves!) The book is largely based on interviews, letters and diaries and is sufficiently detailed and historical, but it reads like a novel - absolutely fascinating, and I couldn't put it down! What particularly impressed me is the amount of damage women did to themselves in the name of suffragism. Yes, they did damage some property etc (window-smashing was particularly popular) but they went on hunger- and thirst-strikes; they were force-fed, they (in the case of Emily Wilding-Davison) threw themselves under horses and died. They chained themselves to railings, were assaulted by the police, and so on. And it struck me that, in a period when morally if not legally women were still seen as the property of men, it was a particularly apposite protest, to damage themselves (or allow themselves to be harmed) in their cause, since to men this would seem to violate a sacred image. Furthermore, it demonstrated their bravery and fitness for the vote, since they conducted their schemes as a war, and went into battle like any man. Yes, I'm aware of the arguments that they were a bit demented in allowing themselves to be harmed, and in their window-smashing etc, but looking back now, doesn't it seem that any protest was right? Imagine if women still didn't have the vote!

The Uncommon Reader

The Times recently described Alan Bennett as a national treasure, and here he is writing about another national treasure: the Queen. Yes, the real Queen - Elizabeth II, though he never actually names her, but contemporary references make it quite clear who she is. This book has been reviewed a lot recently as a perfect beach-read; for me, it was the perfect accompaniment to a train journey - not too demanding, suitably thought-provoking and just the right length (121 pages). The premise of the book is perfect: what if the Queen stumbled upon a mobile library whilst walking her corgis, and became an avid reader? What if she discovered the hitherto unknown and often subversive delights of literature, even neglecting her duties to pursue this new voracious interest?

Not only the Queen - who becomes more and more human and interesting as her reading takes over - but also the characters surrounding her, stuffed-shirt Palace officials, librarians etc, are comically described. It's an amusing read (for example, after reading Proust, she says, ‘the curious thing about it was that when he dipped his cake in his tea (disgusting habit) the whole of his past life came back to him. Well, I tried it and it had no effect on me at all.’ However, it's more thought-provoking than that; the effect that literature can have is explored in all its glory. Actually, I was gripped by the very first page, in which HM questions the president of France on his views on Jean Genet: 'Homosexual and jailbird, was he nevertheless as bad as he was painted? Or, more to the point,' - and she took up her soup spoon - 'was he as good?'

Of course, a Queen who reads - really reads, proper literature, the written equivalent of heroin -is dangerous; she is perceived by those around her as being out of control. Is literature that dangerous? Can it upset what we see as normal, stable, day-to-day life? Of course it can - or what's the point of it? Bennett is gently poking fun, on the surface; but underneath one suspects he is raging at the lack of cultural understanding there seems to be in this country. This particular reader is 'uncommon' not because she is the Queen (and therefore as uncommon as one can be!) but because she is really reading, with a sensitive inner eye that understands, digests, really thinks for herself and is not afraid of the consequences. If only more readers were that uncommon.

Jonathan Dimbleby's Russia

Last week I went to hear Jonathan Dimbleby lecture at the Royal Geographic Society, about his book and TV series on Russia. He's an entertaining and, I think, genuine speaker - he doesn't seem pre-programmed and although he talked from notes he was engaging and off-the-cuff. Also, he didn't just rehash the TV programme, but instead tried to give his listeners a different insight, which was fascinating. He thought twice when the BBC asked him to do the programme, as it was a new venture for him, but decided it would be interesting to see if he could unravel Churchill's famous quote, "Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma". It's a country of extremes, Dimbleby says rightly, not just extreme temperatures but extreme wealth and poverty, extreme emotions and extreme temperaments (this last he illustrated amusingly with tales of reckless drivers and sailors).

His newfound fondness for the Russian people shone through; a people that can initially seem cold turned out to be welcoming, tactile, entertaining and amusing, and, he emphasised, have a deep-rooted fondness for us, as their war-time allies, which the Brits sadly rarely display. Furthermore, Russia has such a complex and often tragic history that we cannot under-estimate the significance of it in understanding its people - while this is of course a truism for any country, Dimbleby explained carefully how this is particularly true for the Russians, still recovering from the scars of the past.

I won't go into too much detail here, but he covered a multitude of aspects of Russian life - from politics (obviously) - he's sceptical about Putin and Medvedev, and is surprised by how many Russians revere Stalin, and feel that Communism had more to offer them than democracy - to agriculture, history, and particularly literature, which he read on his long train journeys and includes discussion of in the book (which I haven't yet read). In fact I even managed to have a brief discussion with him about Russian literature at the end of his talk.

I was impressed by how much ground (physically and metaphorically) was covered in the lecture, the series and the book; there are plenty of amusing anecdotes, but Dimbleby patronises neither his subject nor his audience, and takes his analysis very seriously, which makes a welcome change in the current "bitesize" media world. The Royal Geographic Society, of course, provided a wonderful setting for this; wonderful to think of all the lectures that have taken place there, discussing the world of which we once (and perhaps still) knew so little.