Extract from the diary of S T Coleridge by Helen Carr
Extract from the diary of S. T. Coleridge
or A Slight Misinterpretation of the Task
(Coleridge was famously interrupted in the writing of his opium inspired poem Kubla Khan by the chance visit of a man from Porlock.)
Day 1
Having been unable to commune with the Muse for some time, I have taken a cottage in a remote Somerset village. Away from the distractions of the capital, and of my capital friends the Wordsworths in their Lakeland cott, I devote myself to my art alone. And alone I am, except for the good Mrs Puddy who will make intermittent visits to provide me with the necessities of life.
Day 2
Arrange writing materials on rustic table and stare out at rain swept street and draggled conifer.
No sight nor sound of mankind. Nor, more regrettably, womankind. The cold damp seems to penetrate my person to the bone. Try to light fire in grate and succeed only in filling cottage with smoke. Don coat and embrace the elements wherein inspiration doth oft reside.
Boots much bemired, self scratched by vagrant brambles, I attain at length the summit of a modest hill. Wish I had thought to bring with me the slice of ham left on my breakfast plate and, perhaps, a flask of warming wine. Throw arms aloft to embrace lowering skies, but rain has changed to hail, dashing face and spirits simultaneously. A lonely bird calls mournfully from a wind bent thorn. If only I had taken De Quincey’s advice and gone to Italy.
Return to cott where I am somewhat revived by nourishing broth, crackling fire and excellent wine. Doze in ragged armchair until woken by clatter of Mrs Puddy’s teacups. Astonished, and somewhat dispirited, to see that it is barely four o’clock and already dark. Early to bed, with writing materials ready on bedside table in case of nocturnal inspiration. Unlikely, I feel.
Day 3
Rain has given over to sharp gusts which so rattled the slates on the roof above my chamber that I had barely a wink of sleep. But weather shall not master me. Don still damp coat and head for hills. Walk against vicious wind until I can walk no more. Mist descends. Shelter in lee of ravaged rock and think how much dear Wordsworth would have enjoyed this sort of thing.
Day 4
Rain
Day 5
Rain
Day 6
Rain…I have not spoken to a soul, excepting Mrs Puddy, for days on end…I cannot write…I will go melancholy mad…
Day 7
Wind and hail. The Muse hath deserted me.
Day 8
We have run out of wine. I scratch and strive, but no words come…
Day 9
The gods smile on me. I find a bottle of sweet laudanum, slipped in my bag and, until now, forgot. Tell Mrs Puddy that I will not need her attentions for the day. Arrange writing materials on side table beside armchair. Secure in the knowledge that I will not be disturbed for many hours, I give myself up to the dream…
Wasn’t the man from Porlock an insurance salesman? I thought the slightly ponderous self-regarding tone of the poet had been beautifully captured in the first person here, especially in the ‘don’ and ‘doth’ used here. Funny!
I’m ashamed to say I don’t know about the man from Porlock but I thoroughly enjoyed it all the same. Loved the word ‘rustic’ in: ‘Arranged writing materials on rustic table and stared out at rain swept street’ ….I think we’ve all been there.
I know Porlock and the Lakeland Poets were drummed into me almost from the first day I went to school (until the age of 13 I was brought up in Keswick) and I particularly hated Wordsworth and his beastly daffodils! So it made me smile to poke a bit of fun at them. I don’t think there ever was a man from Porlock, it ws just S T C’s excuse for succombing.
From Simon: I suppose, as the subtitle says, this is ‘A Slight Misinterpretation of the Task’, but it is a knowing and engaging one. Coleridge, though a brilliant poet and thinker, did have a comic side to his personality, and that is exposed here in his search for the elusive Muse. The piece also plays on the reader’s likely knowledge. Even without the introductory note, most people know about the interruption by the ‘man from Porlock’, and I liked the way the narrative stopped before we reached the famous bit. We, the readers, could fill in the blanks. The piece is also a good example of how well the diary format suits humorous writing – think The Diary of a Nobody, Adrian Mole, Bridget Jones, etc. Diary entries can be as long or short as the humour lasts. And they are a perfect vehicle for running jokes. The sequence here of three days where the only entry is ‘Rain’ is a funny one. And ‘Pipe Dreams’ is an excellent and apposite title. A good title is like a short skirt – it should be alluring and cover the essentials, but it should never reveal too much.