In which the Critics In My Head review the final
proofs of my New Book:
He [Winnie the Pooh] sang it like that, which is much the
best way of singing it, and when he had finished, he waited for Piglet to say
that, of all the outdoor hums for Snowy weather he had ever heard, this was the
best. And after thinking the matter out carefully, Piglet said:
“Pooh,” he said solemnly, ”It isn’t the toes so much as
the ears”.
To which BB replied quoting Briggflatts
part two:
“It tastes good, garlic and salt in it,
with the half-sweet white wine of Orvieto
on scanty grass under great trees
where the ramparts cuddle Lucca.
It sounds right, spoken on the ridge
between marine olives and hillside
blue figs, under the breeze fresh
with pollen of Apennine sage.
It feels soft, weed thick in the cave
and the smooth wet riddance of Antonietta’s
bathing suit, mouth ajar for
submarine Amalfitan kisses.
It looks well on the page, but never
well enough. Something is lost
when wind, sun, sea upbraid
justly an unconvinced deserter.”
Pooh began to feel a little more
comfortable, because when you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and Think of
Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you
is quite different when it gets out into the open and other people look at it
