Why I Want to Hit Alfred, Lord Tennyson, by Marie Brennan, Age 29
Because the man keeps having bits of poetry that are allllllllllllmost what I want for the Victorian book, but not quite — either because they don’t contain any phrase I could use for a title, or because they go astray in some fashion that doesn’t make them work. Take these two lines:
To change our dark Queen-city, all her realm
Of sound and smoke
It’s got grit! And a city! And a Queen! Surely this will work, right?
Except that here’s the full passage:
Take, read! and be the faults your Poet makes
Or many or few,
He rests content, if his young music wakes
A wish in you
To change our dark Queen-city, all her realm
Of sound and smoke,
For his clear heaven, and these few lanes of elm
And whispering oak.
In other words, yay nature. Which, no. There’s what this book is about, and there’s that passage, and the two are pretty much at opposite poles to one another.
The problem, I’ve decided, is that the Victorians are insufficiently angry. My impression is that they wrote about nature’s beauty as a means of hiding from industrialization; what I want is poetry that is mad as hell about industrialization and not going to take it anymore. The few things I’ve found that come close to fitting that bill have failed to provide me with a good title quote.
So I keep searching. And I glare at Tennyson, because I just speed-read HIS COMPLETE POETIC WORKS and still don’t have a title. <fume>