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Then anywhere you like. Spark is an author whose sense of humour can terrify as well as entertain.
Lise may meet a brutal end, but at least she has a novel all to herself. Nevertheless, evil was something that concerned Spark very much indeed.
Evil is absolutely necessary for dramatic presentation. A novel without evil would be like the white of an egg without the yolk — insipid. After that he was just a drag. Muriel Spark identified with Mary Shelley for a number of reasons, not least that they shared initials.
After the strong critical reception of Child of Light , and her first novel The Comforters , this became a more realistic proposition. The social whirl and adulation of the literary scene in London and New York were at odds with the ideal conditions for writing, and in the late s Spark went to live in Italy, after a few years sharing a house with the artist Penelope Jardine, who went from being her secretary to her long term companion. In other words, she put her art at the centre of her life, no matter what sacrifices had to be made.
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These included her relationship with her son Robin, which does not seem to have recovered from when she left him, aged four, in a convent school in what was then Southern Rhodesia so that she could escape Africa and his mentally unstable father. I was given to think about noses by being given to think about eyes for an essay competition. And the more I thought about eyes, the less I had to say about them, and the more did I ponder noses.
Not that eyes lack scope: Dry, ambiguous, blue, beastly, wee, or haunting eyes are manageable, but after that, the deluge: I am for noses, because they are frugal as to adjectives and constant in form. It is said that the eyes are the windows of the soul. A fallacy; they are the windows of moods and inclinings, alarums and excursions, which act only as a magnet to more adjectives. No one with a flighty imagination should touch upon a subject which is prone to adjectives.
It is not so with noses. For, incapable of deceit, noses express only themselves. But they mean so much. In fact, the nose is the signpost of the soul.
In the sweeping and general sense, that is. I note that the nose of an officious bus conductor is, from base to tip, altogether too officious.
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He lets his bus take me past my stop. I am sure he has put the Evil Nose on me.
I have to walk all the way back to the National Portrait Gallery, where, on the bust of John Keats, I see an identical nose lending itself an air of the compassionate sublime. The adjectives proper to noses can therefore be reduced to a few anthropological terms, so plain is the nose on your face.
It is true that these peninsulas of the human landscape have their individual endearments. The people I admire most have noses which go off at all angles; they have nostrils like panniers, bellows, cabbage butterflies: You can keep your tiny tip-tilts, which are for shopwindow dummies.
You can have your chiseled classicals, they are for a romantic taste. But what you prefer and what I fancy are beside the point, which is that the nose has a function. It has three functions: The transcendent function of the nose is to proclaim humankind. That the nose is our tether between spirit and substance, Heaven and Earth, is evident from Genesis: Therefore the nose is an emblem at once of our dusty origin and our divine.