NATURAL HISTORY & MEMOIRS 33 TLS SEPTEMBER 1 2017 R elating a swim at Cape Cod, Philip Hoare observes: “every swim is a little death. But it’s also a reminder that you are alive”. The possibility of death ghosts the pages of RisingTideFallingStar, which opens with The Tempest – Hoare relates the etymolog- ical connection between “tempest” and the Latin tempus (time) – and finishes with the loss of David Bowie. In one startling passage, Hoare imagines himself in the jaws of a shark. In another, he gives a haunting account of what it must be like to drown; the human brain doesn’t give the command to breathe in until it has almost lost consciousness. This focus on the mortal offsets the rapture inherent in so much of Hoare’s prose, his unflinching celebration of landscape. He is poetic and precise. An avocet is a “piece of netsuke”. Jellyfish are “cloudy as cataracts” beneath the “ocean’s skin”. Journals are described as exhibiting “a parade of longings”. He lavishes as much attention on the macabre as he does on things that seem conventionally beautiful. His description of finding a deer’s carcass on a beach (“this sea-deer, this antlered seal”) is pure Ted Hughes: It was down to its essential scaffolding, its skele- tal beauty twisted like the ghost of a horned sea FallingStar seems to combine both approaches, knowledge and literary biography woven through with experience. The links between the different worlds and historical figures Hoare invokes are image-led: in one chapter, we’re transported from one domain to another by a vision of Icarus falling from the sky. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Wilfred Owen, Sylvia Plath, Percy Shelley and Lord Byron all stand in rela- tion to the sea, as does the presiding spirit of Leviathan, Herman Melville. Hoare explores the sea as a character in Virginia Woolf’s work, and his approach to literary history makes it something more than a character in his own writing: an urgent narrator, perhaps. There’s a particularly evocative reimagining of Owen’s last swim: I watch him as he leaves his uniform neatly folded in a pile, striding into the sea on his short legs, feeling its rising, exhilarating chill pushing through the waves, the water slicking back his short hair, as sleek as a selfie. I follow him into the surf . . . The effect is to make literary figures unerringly human; the personal and the historical inter- twine in Hoare’s attempt to appreciate the scale of the sea. In his editorial for Granta’s New Nature Writ- HELEN MORT serpent lolling in the water. The stubby antlers sprouted from the bulbous, rough-edged rings on the forehead; caught between them was a scrap of fetlock-like fur . . . Wrestling with the carcass to take it home, he writes, “it occurred to me how easy it might be to detach a human head”. There’s a refreshing honesty in the thoughts Hoare is willing to admit to, and it creates a sense of complicity in the reader. As he swims, Hoare is always aware of danger, mindful of the sea’s intransigence. Describing the plight of many Irish migrants in the mid-1800s who drowned “in scenes which might have been painted by Turner or filmed by CNN”, he reflects: “the sea does not care. It never did”. While Hoare’s Leviathan (2008) was illumi- nating in its historical range, The Sea Inside (2013) offered a more personal account of the human relationship with oceans. RisingTide- Philip Hoare RISINGTIDEFALLINGSTAR 416pp. Fourth Estate. £16.99. 978 0 00813 366 5 Beneath the ocean’s skin How a writer learnt to think through – and with – the sea ing (2008), Jason Cowley cited Lydia Peelle: “The new nature writing,” she told me, “rather than being pastoral or descriptive or simply a nat- ural history essay, has got to be couched in stories – whether fiction or non-fiction – where we as humans are present. Not only as observers, but as intrinsic elements.” In RisingTideFallingStar, the writer is always an intrinsic element in the landscape, but Hoare avoids the traps of anthropocentrism. Discussing whale song and its possible mean- ing, he notes wryly: “we cannot comprehend such beauty beyond ourselves; we must burden it with other meaning”. There has been much speculation about the function of whalesong: whether it’s a mating call, a form of “remote foreplay”, a sonar to detect other whales. Perhaps whales just sing for themselves. The result of Hoare’s self-aware approach to what we like to call “nature writing” is a rich portrait of the sea as an imaginative landscape. Other geographical canvases don’t hold the same attraction for him (“mountains scare me. They make me think they’re hiding some- thing”). The late Roy Fisher said of his home- town, “Birmingham is what I think with”. Philip Hoare thinks through – and with – the sea until he seems almost at one with it.
Welcome message from author
This document is posted to help you gain knowledge. Please leave a comment to let me know what you think about it! Share it to your friends and learn new things together.
Transcript
NATURAL HISTORY & MEMOIRS 33
TLS SEPTEMBER 1 2017
Relating a swim at Cape Cod, PhilipHoare observes: “every swim is a littledeath. But it’s also a reminder that you
are alive”. The possibility of death ghosts thepages of RisingTideFallingStar, which openswith The Tempest – Hoare relates the etymolog-ical connection between “tempest” and theLatin tempus (time) – and finishes with the lossof David Bowie. In one startling passage, Hoareimagines himself in the jaws of a shark. Inanother, he gives a haunting account of what itmust be like to drown; the human brain doesn’tgive the command to breathe in until it hasalmost lost consciousness.
This focus on the mortal offsets the raptureinherent in so much of Hoare’s prose, hisunflinching celebration of landscape. He ispoetic and precise. An avocet is a “piece ofnetsuke”. Jellyfish are “cloudy as cataracts”beneath the “ocean’s skin”. Journals aredescribed as exhibiting “a parade of longings”.He lavishes as much attention on the macabreas he does on things that seem conventionallybeautiful. His description of finding a deer’scarcass on a beach (“this sea-deer, this antleredseal”) is pure Ted Hughes:
It was down to its essential scaffolding, its skele-tal beauty twisted like the ghost of a horned sea
FallingStar seems to combine both approaches,knowledge and literary biography woventhrough with experience. The links between thedifferent worlds and historical figures Hoareinvokes are image-led: in one chapter, we’retransported from one domain to another by avision of Icarus falling from the sky. ElizabethBarrett Browning, Wilfred Owen, Sylvia Plath,Percy Shelley and Lord Byron all stand in rela-tion to the sea, as does the presiding spirit ofLeviathan, Herman Melville. Hoare exploresthe sea as a character in Virginia Woolf’s work,and his approach to literary history makes itsomething more than a character in his ownwriting: an urgent narrator, perhaps. There’s aparticularly evocative reimagining of Owen’slast swim:
I watch him as he leaves his uniform neatly foldedin a pile, striding into the sea on his short legs,feeling its rising, exhilarating chill pushingthrough the waves, the water slicking back hisshort hair, as sleek as a selfie. I follow him intothe surf . . .
The effect is to make literary figures unerringlyhuman; the personal and the historical inter-twine in Hoare’s attempt to appreciate the scaleof the sea.
In his editorial for Granta’s New Nature Writ-
HELEN MORT
serpent lolling in the water. The stubby antlerssprouted from the bulbous, rough-edged ringson the forehead; caught between them was a scrapof fetlock-like fur . . .Wrestling with the carcass to take it home, he
writes, “it occurred to me how easy it might beto detach a human head”. There’s a refreshinghonesty in the thoughts Hoare is willing toadmit to, and it creates a sense of complicity inthe reader. As he swims, Hoare is always awareof danger, mindful of the sea’s intransigence.Describing the plight of many Irish migrantsin the mid-1800s who drowned “in sceneswhich might have been painted by Turner orfilmed by CNN”, he reflects: “the sea does notcare. It never did”.
While Hoare’s Leviathan (2008) was illumi-nating in its historical range, The Sea Inside(2013) offered a more personal account of thehuman relationship with oceans. RisingTide-
P h i l i p H o a r e
R I S I N G T I D E F A L L I N G S T A R416pp. Fourth Estate. £16.99.
978 0 00813 366 5
Beneath the ocean’s skinHow a writer learnt to think through – and with – the sea
ing (2008), Jason Cowley cited Lydia Peelle:“The new nature writing,” she told me, “ratherthan being pastoral or descriptive or simply a nat-ural history essay, has got to be couched in stories– whether fiction or non-fiction – where we ashumans are present. Not only as observers, butas intrinsic elements.”
In RisingTideFallingStar, the writer is alwaysan intrinsic element in the landscape, butHoare avoids the traps of anthropocentrism.Discussing whale song and its possible mean-ing, he notes wryly: “we cannot comprehendsuch beauty beyond ourselves; we must burdenit with other meaning”. There has been muchspeculation about the function of whalesong:whether it’s a mating call, a form of “remoteforeplay”, a sonar to detect other whales.Perhaps whales just sing for themselves.
The result of Hoare’s self-aware approach towhat we like to call “nature writing” is a richportrait of the sea as an imaginative landscape.Other geographical canvases don’t hold thesame attraction for him (“mountains scare me.They make me think they’re hiding some-thing”). The late Roy Fisher said of his home-town, “Birmingham is what I think with”.Philip Hoare thinks through – and with – the seauntil he seems almost at one with it.
Related Documents
