Another post to republish, written in March 2013, and relating to my life in 1958, aware of a momentous event in American history Now that my 16th birthday’s out of the way—it’s become a family event, this year bigger than last—the most exciting thing going on in my life is Winter’s retreat and Spring’s approach:… Continue reading Me and the Little Rock Nine
Category: school
The Anointing of Saul
Published on Monday, January 10, 2011 in perpetual-lab.blogspot.com. A shorter version was then published here. Here is the full post. How shall I approach this Bible reading exercise? I’m glad I chose the First Book of Samuel because I last read it fifty-eight years ago, so it doesn’t blind me with the reflective glare of… Continue reading The Anointing of Saul
A Brush With The Past
From the age of 12, I went to King James I School, in Newport, Isle of Wight. It was built as a grammar school in 1613, with some latter additions to accommodate more boys.. Our art master was Mr Bell, a strict disciplinarian. We were not allowed to speak to one another during the 1½-hour… Continue reading A Brush With The Past
Touched by the Printed Word
First published on Feb. 25th, 2009 I learned to read at my grandmother’s knee, at four years old. We used a Victorian primer, Reading without Tears: it proved itself worthy of the name and I worked through it in a few days, mostly on my own. I remember being frustrated with the word “parlour” near… Continue reading Touched by the Printed Word
A call from “Alma Mater”
Last night I got a call from a bright young woman in the Alumni department, clearly a student volunteer. They ring from time to time to see if you can donate to their charity in aid of disadvantaged students from overseas. this is from their website https://www.birmingham.ac.uk/ : Birmingham is a truly global university producing… Continue reading A call from “Alma Mater”
George Santayana
I came across his name when I was 17, but since then I've never seen it again till now: in the same book I borrowed, back in 1959. Despite extensive reading in the spheres of philosophy and religion since then, I've never come the name since, except in the book I borrowed then. I was… Continue reading George Santayana
When the Past Haunts the Night
Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night ... I find myself surprised to discover that the boarding school* I was so glad to leave in 1954 is actually still open for business, run by the same headmaster and his… Continue reading When the Past Haunts the Night
How to quell terrorists
Disclaimer: Vincent does not know how to quell terrorists, religious or Communist, and has no opinion on any methods for doing so, past, present or future. My title is deliberately provocative and refers to methods used in 1954 in Malaya. When Burr Deming, in “Fair and Unbalanced” (see Pingback at bottom of comments below), says… Continue reading How to quell terrorists
White and Black…
...but Cool for Cats Some people close to me have been white supremacists and racists. So I can speak about them with personal knowledge, so far as that’s possible. It remains true that none of us can really know what it’s like to be someone else. For example, I’ve lived with Karleen for a dozen… Continue reading White and Black…
The Call to Service
updates to this post pending, e.g. correction of links - Oct 7th, '25 (being the third of a trilogy on “Religion and Violence”, a theme covered in Karen Armstrong’s latest book, Fields of Blood) Background What I learned about religion in childhood came almost entirely from school. The single exception was a phase when my… Continue reading The Call to Service
Blessedness
Days pass quickly, like the view from a speeding train. From another angle, I stand on a bridge above the line, hear the roar and clatter of the train below, watch it round the curve and disappear into the tunnel, leaving emptiness and the memory of its presence. Externally, each day resembles the one before;… Continue reading Blessedness
At sixteen
Here is the text of the essay I referred to in my last, as written in 1958. I don’t suppose it is intrinsically entertaining. To lighten it I’ve embedded some group photos in which my face may be seen, and an aerial shot of the place, Swainston Manor, which became my true home for a… Continue reading At sixteen
On Happiness
I always enjoy Arash’s essays.* They help bring the chaos of my own branching thoughts into a momentary focus; or in some cases provide a topic to brood on for days. His latest is on Happiness, a word I don’t spontaneously use, only in reference to other people’s usage. I feel that it needs to be… Continue reading On Happiness
In the thistle-field, at dawn
I lie in bed watching dawn’s rosy fingers light up the house opposite, creeping lower as the hour advances. This street is narrow, its houses joined together (‘terraced’) in a continuous chain on both sides. You’d think there’d be scant room for the low-slanting rays to penetrate. But our house is near the street’s eastern… Continue reading In the thistle-field, at dawn
A modest school reunion
I often “dwell in the past”. It’s a fabulous museum, where you can look at the same exhibits time and again, and discover new ones you hadn’t noticed before, and see the familiar ones from new angles. My fondness for this pastime owes a lot to my sense that I didn’t live my life fully… Continue reading A modest school reunion
Art, not Nature
It was increasing impatience with (or even revulsion from) woolly Romanticism which led in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries to movements in art and literature where form and colour were pursued as if for their own sakes, to create new worlds of experience, which in a sense parted company with Nature. The nature of a… Continue reading Art, not Nature
At Mrs Jenkins’
Last night we watched My Left Foot, in which Daniel Day-Lewis plays the real-life Christy Brown, born to a family of thirteen in a Dublin slum with severe cerebral palsy. To his parents, it’s out of the question that he should be abandoned in an institution, but they cannot afford the home care and treatment… Continue reading At Mrs Jenkins’
Dress code
In my last, I claimed that my long-standing writer’s block was over, and promised to continue my memoirs from where they left off last February at the age of fourteen. There has been plenty of scribbling since then but nothing fit to print. I wanted by some means to indicate “the story so far” so… Continue reading Dress code
“The Head’s sermon”
Limerick spoof of a sermon delivered at St Thomas’s Church, Newport IW, July 1958, to which parents were invited Improved on Sunday March 1st 2026 Bill McCullagh—we were at school together—has finally sent me a photocopy of an anthology of writings and drawings from that era. Much of it was my work, but the best… Continue reading “The Head’s sermon”
The school yard
Me; the bullied boy; Rasmussen That aerial photo of the school helped arouse many memories, which in my life seem to be fastened upon places more than upon people. In that respect, I am more of a cat than a dog. I’m more introverted, solitary, not made to hunt in packs and defer to the… Continue reading The school yard
King James I School
At the school there was a Scout Troop in addition to the Cadet Contingent. At some point in my bookish diversions I had read Baden-Powell’s Scouting for Boys and been seduced by it just like millions of others world-wide. The essence of this seductive power was contained in the bush-hat, the neckwear and the badge-adorned… Continue reading King James I School
Latin Class
Too much is happening in my life at present to write a proper post. The process of remembering schooldays has been action enough, so here is a photo from the archive entrusted to me. It's a Latin class. I hardly remember the master: he must have left soon afterwards. The boy shown highlighted is me.… Continue reading Latin Class
Fantasies
Recalling materials for a memoir is like being an archaeologist. Sometimes you have to make do with nothing but a handle, or a spout. From this you deduce and reconstruct the rest of the jug whose fragments have been ground small by Time. Painstaking effort must be aided by guesswork, for you don’t have every… Continue reading Fantasies
Bicycle
Long ago, when we were 11 or 12, I received a wonderful favour from Cooksey. We used surnames only at prep school, so Cooksey is all I have: hardly enough to track him down now. His parents were in Hong Kong, but at half-term, when almost every boy went away for the Saturday and Sunday,… Continue reading Bicycle
Days at boarding-school
What distinguishes man from the other animals? I wish I had made a note of all the answers I’ve read. Perhaps someone somewhere has compiled a long list of them. Well here is another for the collection. What distinguishes man from the other animals is the vast spectrum of “normal”. Unlike ducks and pigeons, we… Continue reading Days at boarding-school
The angelic gift
An English Spring can be two-faced, like life itself. The sun warms you and the chill wind finds its way through your clothes, both at the same time. For a whole week I haven’t written here, but the will was there and a need to understand what’s been happening to me. I’ve been feeling uneasy; … Continue reading The angelic gift
Bible-reading martyrs
In the Middle Ages (I used to study Medieval History, so I know) the religious and secular realms---Church and State---would either be at war with one another or in some kind of alliance, as in “The Holy Roman Empire”, which was neither holy nor Roman. In matters secular, foreign policy and internal laws were backed… Continue reading Bible-reading martyrs
Sent to boarding-school
From an unhappy household I was sent to boarding school at the age of 6, as it happens on the day that my half-sister was born. I'd been told nothing, just taken there Out of this time, I spent nearly eight weeks in hospital with my leg in plaster — not a fracture, but a… Continue reading Sent to boarding-school
What I owe to Mr Dufeu
Looking that mackerel in the eye, doubting its immortality, accepting the procession of evolution from fish-like ancestors to me, was another step towards scepticism—as to any afterlife existence I might expect. Religion has no direct authority over my beliefs, but one absorbs vague assumptions from the culture one’s brought up in. For sixty years some… Continue reading What I owe to Mr Dufeu