Rudyard Kipling30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936
Carrie's giving me the freezeAt 41, the youngest winner of the Nobel Prize in literature. Was a resident of
Vermont for a while, so had an understanding of proper snow. I live in his old neighbourhood in East Sussex and have been to
Bateman's loads of times, but aside from
If and a few other poems, have never read him.
Unquiet LandsIf the standing of writers was tradable like stocks, what price would you get for a Kipling? A scant few pennies? Certainly just a fraction of the value of, say, a Churchill. Whereas trade in the former has virtually ceased, Churchills gain in value by the year.
And why should that be? Both were men of their age (that euphemism suggesting the maintenance of views unpalatable to modern tastes). Their lives spanned the pomp of imperialism and witnessed the decline of empire brought about by the horrors of war. Both railed against this erosion and both expended energy and time on fruitless attempts to rebuild the nation’s appetite for influence. Both were militaristic, yet sentimental about the plight of the “Tommy”. Both were prone to depression and garrulousness. Both had seen action and were men of conviction. Both had charm, yet were impatient, irascible and hard-won. Both were men of the people despite erudition and intellect.
Yet, despite all this, Churchill remains a popular folk icon while the legacy of Kipling has hardened and crumbled. A hard man to like, suggested the obituaries of the time, yet few could be found to own up to their dislike.
Patti Smithborn December 30, 1946
Vanishing New YorkEach day I rose, dutifully dressed and made the three subway changes to Rockefeller Center. My uniform for Scribner's was taken from Anna Karina in Bande à part: dark sweater, plaid skirt, black tights and flats. I was positioned at the phone desk, which was manned by the kindhearted and supportive Faith Cross. I felt lucky to be associated with such a historic bookstore. My salary was higher, and I had Janet as a confidante. I was rarely bored, and when I got restless, I wrote on the back of Scribner's stationery, like Tom in The Glass Menagerie, scribbling poems on the inside of cardboard boxes.
Faith was still around when I started at Scribner's many years later. I was there just long enough to see the end of it, and literally shut the door on its last day of business. That’s also where I met Bob Dylan, if him having to move out of the way while I was carrying an armful of books counts as “meeting”.
Patti would later stand in for Bob at the Nobel ceremony,

which he famously didn’t bother attending.
Here's a song I heard for the first time today.