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Copyright © Andrew Marr 2015
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Extract from ‘Canto XIII’, from THE CANTOS OF EZRA POUND, copyright ©1934 by Ezra Pound. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
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Source ISBN: 9780007596454
Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007596461
Version: 2016-04-26
Kung walked
by the dynastic temple
and into the cedar grove,
and then out by the lower river,
And with him Khieu, Tchi,
And Tian the low speaking
And, ‘we are unknown,’ said Kung,
‘You will take up charioteering?
‘Then you will become known,
‘Or perhaps I should take up charioteering, or archery?
‘Or the practice of public speaking?’
And Tseu-lou said, ‘I would put the defences in order,’
And Khieu said, ‘if I were lord of a province
I would put it in better order than this is.’
And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves:
If a man have not order within him
He can not spread order about him;
And if a man have not order within him
His family will not act with due order;
And if the prince have not order within him
he cannot put order in his dominions.
And he said
‘Anyone can run to excesses,
It is easy to shoot past the mark,
‘It is hard to stand firm in the middle.’
And they said: If a man commit murder
Should his father protect him, and hide him?
And Kung said:
He should hide him.
From Ezra Pound, ‘Canto XIII’
A good politician seizes the moment; and if the moment resists, she knocks the bugger against a hard surface until it gives up.
The Master
There are special days. Not so many. Far more often come the amiable days when we dress, shower, eat and work, when we laugh at one another and we pass on secrets, and we eat moist chicken and drink cold beer … and none of it really touches our inner selves. Most days we slip through, the snow creaking, barely touching the sides. As in a symphony, not every moment – not every day – can be intense. And there are also the days whose smells, music and colours burn themselves into us so that we are changed for good. On such days, speckles of dirt on a kettle lid can be beautiful, and a song whistled in the street can sit inside our skulls forevermore.
Caro Phillips, who was a good person, believed that today would be a special day. She pulled open the curtains and a cold, pre-dawn light filled her bedroom.
She had acted ruthlessly. Because she had acted, everything had changed. She saw the orange and green rug under her bare feet properly, for the first time. She’d bought it years before. Beautiful, just beautiful. She saw her dressing gown flopping from its hook on the door, a dollop of shadow beside it, and felt love for its soft familiarity. She saw her own shadow, quivering, and reached out to touch it. She didn’t glance in the direction of the bedroom mirror, saving that until she reached the bathroom.
The face, as she’d hoped, was both familiar and, this morning, strange. It was a good face. Laughter lines; there had been a lot of laughter. A slight caramel tan, the residue of life-changing days in Rome. She smiled at herself: teeth tamed in adolescence by train tracks, a slightly overlong top lip, summer-sky-blue eyes. Ever since she could remember, she’d been able to knock people backwards, almost literally, with her smile – men and, yes, absolutely, women too.
