Arts Wind in the Writing
posted by August 7 at 14:03 PMon
About the new play of Wind in the Willows, this is what Paul Constant has to say:
The timing of this new adaptation of Wind in the Willows seems downright mischievous. This is an entire play about a man (or rather a “boastful and conceited” toad named Toad) who falls in love with automobiles the moment he first sees one, and continues to drive his beloved “motorcars” even though it’s costing every last penny he has and his joyrides endanger both himself and everyone around him. It’s a good thing that Toad is so loveable.
About the book Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame, this is what I have to say: It’s filled with wonderful English turns and passages.
A good example, the Badger to the Mole:
“…I see you don’t understand, and I must explain it to you. Well, very long ago, on the spot where the Wild Wood waves now, before ever it had planted itself and grown up to what it now is, there was a city— a city of people, you know. Here, where we are standing, they lived, and walked, and talked, and slept, and carried on their business. Here they stabled their horses and feasted, from here they rode out to fight or drove out to trade. They were a powerful people, and rich, and great builders. They built to last, for they thought their city would last for ever.’
And just listen to this music:
He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his life had he seen a river before- this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh …
It’s a music that’s almost as beautiful as this music:
His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
And one more for my baby, one more for the road:
A fire of sticks was burning near by, and over the fire hung an iron pot, and out of that pot came forth bubblings and gurglings, and a vague suggestive steaminess. Also smells - warm, rich, and varied smells - that twined and twisted and wreathed themselves at last into one complete, voluptuous, perfect smell that seemed like the very soul of Nature taking form and appearing to her children, a true Goddess, a mother of solace and comfort.
All art aspires to the condition of music.