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Personal site of Jane Davis, Founder & Director of The Reader. Blade: Trinity Movie Watch Online here. Mainly reading & thoughts about reading, plus some of my obsessions.

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Small, intensely scented Viburnum flowers, spicing the garden air. I’ve been reading Matthew Arnold’s poem, ‘The Buried Life’ here for the past while.

Find the whole poem here. I’m in this long central section – I read it aloud to get myself into the water this morning: But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,But often, in the din of strife,There rises an unspeakable desire.

After the knowledge of our buried life; A thirst to spend our fire and restless force. In tracking out our true, original course; A longing to inquire. Into the mystery of this heart which beats. So wild, so deep in us—to know. Whence our lives come and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then delves,But deep enough, alas! And we have been on many thousand lines,And we have shown, on each, spirit and power; But hardly have we, for one little hour,Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—Hardly had skill to utter one of all.

The nameless feelings that course through our breast,But they course on for ever unexpress’d. And long we try in vain to speak and act. Our hidden self, and what we say and do.

Is eloquent, is well—but ‘t is not true! As I read I  think – I’ve missed some lines – did I notice, last week, ‘unspeakable desire’? Did I notice ‘tracking our true, original course’? And above all, did I notice, key lines for the whole poem,A longing to inquire. Into the mystery of this heart which beats. Watch Mona Lisa Smile Download Full there.

So wild, so deep in us. I don’t think so! I was rushing to get to the many thousand lines, to these lines,But hardly have we, for one little hour,Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—which seem to me the wellspring of the poem. The disjunction between the nameless feelings, the sense of ‘something’ under our day- to- day selves, ‘something’ almost impossible to get at, get into words, know in consciousness, and our  top selves, the brainy bit that goes around thinking rationally and processing direct experience, that’s where this poem finds itself, reaching after knowing, failing, reaching again. Hardly had skill to utter one of all.

The nameless feelings that course through our breast,But they course on for ever unexpress’d. And long we try in vain to speak and act. Our hidden self, and what we say and do. Is eloquent, is well—but ‘t is not true! And even a poet is reduced to not being able to get at this area of being – I see Matthew Arnold uses the word ‘skill’ to try to  pinpoint what you’d need to do it, but later the word ‘eloquent’ is a throwaway – eloquence, poetry won’t necessarily do it. This is useful as a reminder to me – I don’t always feel what Matthew Arnold describes feeling but I do recognise the disjunct. I don’t mind so much not being able to put that buried life into words, though I think I did mind when I was younger, was always writing, getting stuff down  in notebooks as if knowing or trying to know what I felt was of key importance.

Now I am just glad to feel it. And I do feel it. Yesterday for the first time  in a few weekends I spent some time in the garden, mowing the lawn, taking some cuttings, looking hopelessly at the ivy problem.

As I got the lawn mower out of the shed (stupid, irritating, difficult process, needs a rethink)  and put it down on the grass I had a  shot of intense pleasure, the sunlight, the grass, the scent, the quiet of the garden all pleased me. My being in the garden pleased me, and I thought of what someone had said to me earlier in the week about football being good for his mental health. I thought ‘gardening is good for my mental health’ and it is because I get this delight, this joy.  Though ‘delight’, ‘joy’ won’t quite do. Myrtle berries, tremendous harvest. There was the Myrtle bush, completely drenched in its  jet ovoid berries.  What can I do with them?

I looked up  Uses of Myrtle and found that they are used in bridal bouquets in England, and for roasting meat in Sicily. They gave me a massive jolt of pleasure, the cornucopia of them, and I took cuttings for the Secret Garden at Calderstones, where, one day, weddings will be held.

In summer, Myrtle has tiny, frothy, white scented flowers, ideal for a bridal bouquet, in Autumn these amazing black- jewel berries, which you can dry and they become like peppercorns (let’s see what happens). The leaves are evergreen. I didn’t talk, or write, I just felt it.

And that was good. And that is more or less what happens to Matthew Arnold, through love,  in the poem; Only—but this is rare—When a belovèd hand is laid in ours,When, jaded with the rush and glare. Of the interminable hours,Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear,When our world- deafen’d ear. Is by the tones of a loved voice caress’d—A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.

A man becomes aware of his life’s flow,And hears its winding murmur; and he sees. The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. Love is the most direct way to that connection but it isn’t only romantic love that does it. Love of any sort will probably do it.  You’ll know it by its effect, not its cause; A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. This is an effect I have often seen and experienced in Shared Reading.

It’s a wonderful experience to sit alongside someone who is formulating words to express what they feel when they get to this place. I saw it recently in the films produced by the CRILS team as part of the AHRC Cultural Value project.  A man in a drug rehab, an old woman in a Care Home – both moved, unlocked, reach for words which speak of the heart which lies plain,And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. There’s a beautiful  completion to these words, as if things don’t get any better for humans than this.  It feels almost a state of rest? And when I look again at the final lines, it is a sort of rest; And there arrives a lull in the hot race. Wherein he doth for ever chase.

That flying and elusive shadow, rest. Watch The Collection Streaming. An air of coolness plays upon his face,And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. And then he thinks he knows.

The hills where his life rose,And the sea where it goes. So, for a moment, we have ‘got free’. It won’t last, it is a ‘lull in the hot race’ but the coolness and the calm are a delight which create a sort of channel for a kind of knowledge: ‘he thinks he knows’, nothing certain here, but a different kind of knowing, perhaps.

An intimation. The biggest moment in this poem – so often frustrated and stuck – is the bolt being shot back. The image is a powerful one – there is almost a violence in it, as there so often is in real bolts, in real life.  They are rarely well- oiled and easy to shift! I love that Matthew Arnold makes the experience universal – look at the pronouns; A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. Situations where that bolt shoots back are vital to us – we need that to happen and we don’t have enough experiences of it.  That is part of the mental ill- health epidemic we’re beginning to suffer. I’m going to finish my daily reading practice by rereading the whole poem. Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!

I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll. Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,We know, we know that we can smile!

But there’s a something in this breast,To which thy light words bring no rest,And thy gay smiles no anodyne. Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,And turn those limpid eyes on mine,And let me read there, love! Alas! is even love too weak. To unlock the heart, and let it speak? Are even lovers powerless to reveal.