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During his childhood the First Revolution took place in France. At the same time industrial Revolution developed in England. Wars, political oppresion of the massesall these facts observed by the poet, gave rise to his discontent with the social and political life of his time and that’s why his poetry was full of gloom and sorrow. But Byron was not inclined to accept the existing conditions passively. He raised his voice to condemn them, and so to call men to active struggle against the social evils of his time. That is why he may be called a revolutionary romanticist. Byron’s characters like the poet himself are strong individuals who are disillusioned in life and fight single-handed against the injustice and cruelty od society.

The poet was born in 1788 in an aristicratic family in London. His father was an army captain, died when the boy was three years old. The boy spent his childhood in Aberdeen (Scotland) ith his mother. His mother, Catherin Gordon< was a Scottish lady of honorable birth and respectable fortune. Byron was lame and felt distressed about it all his life. Yet, thanks to his strong will and regular training. He became an excellent ider. A champion swimmer and a boxer.

When Byron lived in Aberdeen he attended grammar school. In 1798 Byron’s granduncle died and the boy inherited the title of lord and the Byron’s family estate. Ut was situated near Nottingham, close to the famous Sherwood Forest. Together with his mother the boy moved to Newstead Abbey from where he was sent to Harrow School. At 17 he entered Cambridge University. He was very handsome. He had beautiful manly profile. His contemporary young men tried to imitate his clothesm his manners and even his limping gait. He seemed proud, tragic, melancholic. But he could also be very cheerful and witty.

His literary career began while he was at Cambridge. His first volume of verse entitled “Hours of Idleness” (1807) contained a number of lyrics dealing with love, regret and parting. There were also some translation from Latin and Greek poetry. His poems were seerely criticized by the Edinburgh Review, the leading literary magazine of that time.

After graduating from Cambridge University in 1809 Byron started on a tour through Portugal, Spain, Greece, Turkey and Albania. He returned home in 1811, by right of birth he was a member of the House of Lords.

In 1812 the first two cantos of child “Harold’s Pilgrimage” were published. They were received by his contemporaries with a burst of enthusiasm. He became one of the most popular me in London.

Between 1813 – 1816 Byron composed his “Oriental Tales”. The most famous of tales are “The Giaour”, “The Corsar@ and “Lara”, all of which embody the poet’s romantic individualism. The hero is a rebel against society, a man of strong will and passion. Proud and independent, he rises against tyranny and injustice to gain his personal freedom and happiness.

In theis period Byron began to write his political satires< the most outstanding of which is the “Ode to Framers of the Frame Bill”.

In 1815 Byron married Miss Isabells Milbanker, a religious woman, col and pedantic. It was an unhappy match for the poet.

Though Byron was fond of their child Augusta Ada, he and his wife parted/ The scandl surrounding the devorse was great. The poet was accused of immorality and had to leave the country.

In May 1816 Byron went to Switzerland where he made the acquaintance of Percy Bysshe Shelley and the two poet became close friends.

While in Switzerland Byron wrote Canto the Third of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1816), “The Prisoner of Chillon “(1816) a lirical drama “Manfred” and a number of poems.

“The Prisoner of Chillon “ describes the tragic fate of the Swiss revolutionary Bonnivard who spent a number of years of his life in prison with his brothers.

In 1817 Byron went to Italy, where he lived till 1823. At this time political conditios in Italy were such as to rouse his indignation. He wished to see the country one and undivided. Acting o this idea, the poet joined the secret organization of the Corbanari which was engaged in struggle against the Austrian opressors.

The Italian period (1817-1823), influenced by revolutionary ideas, is considered the summit of Byron’s poetical career. Such works as “Beppo’ (1818) and his greatest work “Don Juan” (1819-1824) are the most realistic works written by the poet. It is a novel in verse, that was to contain 24 cantos, but death stopped his work and only 16 and a half cantos were written. Though the action of Don Juan takes place at the close of the 18^th century, it is easy enough to understand that the author depicts the 19^th century Europe and gives a broad panorama of life.

Other work of this period are: canto the Fourth of Child Harold’s Pilgrimage (1817), “The Prophecy of Dante”, where speaking in the person of the great Italian poet Dante< Byron calls upon Italians to fight for their independence; the tragedy “Cain” (1821).

Лекция 38

JAMES JOYCE

(1882-1941)

James Joyce was born and educated in Dublin. He was a good linguist, from an early age he read and studied widely. He wrote verses and novels. His famous novel, “Ulysses” was a great success (1922). It revolution – ized the form and structure of the novel decisively influenced the development of the “stream of consciousness” or “interior monologue”, and pushed language and linguistic experiment to the extreme limits of communication. “Ulysses” brought J. Joyce both fame and notoriety. Its unprecedented frankness in treating the physiological aspects of human existence was the reason it was banned for obscenity; on the other hand, it was proclaimed an entirely original work, the beginning of a new era in the history of letters.

“Ulysses”.

In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, cover­ing green-goldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float away. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing chafing against the low rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss oos. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary: and, whispered to, they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sign of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniursia patiens ingemiscit. To no end gathered: vainly then released, forth flowing, wending back loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.

Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one he said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing landward, a pace a pace a porpoise. There he is. Hook it quick. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. We have him. Easy now.

Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat o a spongy titbit.... God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.

A seachange this brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father Ocean. Prix de Paris: beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Come. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there? Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. No. My cockle fat and staff and his my sandal shoon. Where? To evening lands. Eve­ning will find itself.

He took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end. By the way next when is it? Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet.

Лекция 39

VIRGINIA WOOLF

(1882-1941)

Virginia Woolf is acclaimed as one of the great innovative novelists of the 20 th century. Many of her experimental techniques (such as the use of the stream of consciousness, or interior monologue) have been absorbed into the mainstream of fiction; Her novels have been particularly regarded from the 1970 onwards. She was also a literary critic and journalist of distinction. She was regarded as one of the principal exponents of Modernism and her subsequent major novels “Mrs. Dalloway” (1925), “To the Light house” (1927) and “The Waves” (1931), established her reputation securely.

“Mrs. Dalloway”

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer's men were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning-fresh as if issued to children on a beach.

What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, “Musing among the vegetables?”— was that it?-“I prefer men to cauliflowers”-was that it? He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace – Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished – how strange it was! – a few sayings like this about cabbages.

She stiffened a little on the kerb, waiting for Durtnall’s van to pass. A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her (knowing her as one does know people who live next door to one in Westminster); a touch of the bird about her, of the jay, blue-very white since he, Laics. There she perched, never seeing hurl, waiting to cross, very upright.

For having lived in Westminster – how many years now? over twenty – one feels even in the midst of the traffic, or waking at night, Clarissa was positive, a particular bush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense (but that might be her heart, affected, they said, by influenza) before Big Ben strikes. There! Out it boomed. First a warning, musical: then the hour, irrevocab­le; The leaden circles dissolved in the air. Such fools we are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For Heaven only knows why one loves it so, how one sees it so, making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh; but the veriest frumps, the most dejected of miseries sitting on doorsteps (drink their downfall) do the same; can't be dealt with, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life. In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.

For it was the middle of June. The War was over, except for some one like Mrs. Foxcroft at the Embassy last night eating her heart out because that nice boy was killed and now the old Manor House must go to a cousin; or Lady Bexborough who opened a bazaar, they said, with the telegram in her hand, John, her favourite, killed; but it was over; thank Heaven-over. It was June. The King and Queen were at the Palace. And everywhere, though it was still so early, there was a beating, a stirring of galloping ponies, tapping of cricket bats; Lords, Ascot, Ranelagh and all the rest of it; wrapped in the soft mesh of the grey-blue morning air, which, as the day wore on, would unwind them, and set down on their lawns and pitches the bouncing ponies, whose forefeet just struck the ground and up they sprung, the whirling young men, and laughing girls in their transparent muslins who, even now, after dancing all night, were taking their absurd woolly dogs for a run; and even now, at this hour, discreet old dowagers were shooting out in their motor cars on errands of mystery; and the shopkeepers were fidgeting in their Windows with their paste and diamonds, their lovely old sea-green brooches in eightenth-century settings to tempt Americans (but one must economise, not buy things rashly for Elizabeth), and she, too, loving it as she did with an absurd and faithful passion, being part of it, since her people were courtiers once in the time of the Georges, she, too, was going that very night to kindle and illumi­nate; to give her party. But how strange, on entering the Park, the silence; the mist; the hum; the slow-swimming happy ducks; the pouched birds waddling; and who should be coming along with his back against the Government buildings, most appropria­tely, carrying a despatch box stamped with the Royal Arms, who but Hugh Whitbread; her old friend Hugh—the admirable Hugh!

“Good-morning to you, Clarissa!” said Hugh, rather extrava­gantly, for they had known each other as children. “Where are you off to?”

“I love walking in London,” said Mrs. Dalloway. “Really, it's better than walking in the country.”

They had just come up-unfortunately-to see doctors. Other people came to see pictures; go to the opera; take their daughters out; the Whitbreads came "to see doctors." Times without number Clarissa had; visited Evelyn Whitbread in a nursing home. Was Evelyn ill again? Evelyn was a good deal out of sorts, said Hugh, intimating by a kind of pout or swell of his very well-covered, manly, extremely handsome, perfectly upholstered body (he was almost too well dressed always, but presumably had to be, with his little job at Court) that his wife had some internal ailment, nothing serious, which, as an old friend, Clarissa Dallo­way would quite understand without requiring him to specify. Ah yes, she did of course; what a nuisance; and felt very sisterly and oddly conscious at the same time of her hat. Not the right hat for the early morning, was that it? For Hugh always made her feel, as he bustled on, raising his hat rather extravagantly and assuring her that she might be a girl of eighteen, and of course he was coming to her party to-night, Evelyn absolutely insisted, only a little late he might be after the party at the Palace to which he had to take one of Jim's boys –she always felt a little skimpy beside Hugh; schoolgirlish; but attached to him, partly from having known him always, but she did think him a good sort in his own way, though Richard was nearly driven mad by him, and as for Peter Walsh, he had never to this day forgiven her for liking him.

She could remember scene after scene at Bourton-Peter furious; Hugh not, of course, his match in any way, but still not a positive imbecile as Peter made out; not a mere barber's block. When his old mother wanted him to give up shooting or to take her to Bath he did it, without a word; he was really unselfish, and as for saying, as Peter did, that he had no heart, no brain, nothing but the manners and breeding of an English gentleman, that was only her dear Peter at his worst; and he could be in­tolerable; he could be impossible; but adorable to walk with on a morning like this.

(June had drawn out every leaf on the trees. The mothers of Pimlico gave suck to their young. Messages were passing from the Fleet to the Admiralty. Arlington Street and Piccadilly seemed to chafe the very air in the Park and lift its leaves hotly, brilliantly, on waves of that divine vitality which Clarissa loved. To dance, to ride, she. had adored all that.)

For they might be parted for hundreds of years, she and Peter; she never wrote a letter and his were dry sticks; but suddenly it would come over her, If he were with me now what would he say?-some days, some sights bringing him back to her calmly, without the old bitterness; which perhaps was the reward of having cared for people; they came back in the middle of St. James's Park on a fine morning – indeed they did. But Peter-however beautiful the day might be, and the trees and the grass, and the little girl in pink-Peter never saw a thing of all that. He would put on his spectacles, if she told him to; he would look. It was the state of the world that interested him; Wagner, Pope's poetry, people's characters eternally, and the defects of her own soul. How he scolded her! How they argued! She would marry a Prime Minister and stand at the top of a staircase; the perfect hostess he called her (she had cried over it in her bedroom), she had the makings of the perfect hostess, he said.

So she would still find herself arguing in St. James's Park, still making out that she had been right – and she had too – not to marry him. For in marriage a little licence, a little independence there must be between people living together day in day out in the same house; which Richard gave her, and she him. (Where was he tills morning, for instance? Some committee, she never asked what.) But with Peter everything had to be shared; everything gone into. And it was intolerable, and when it came to that scene in the little garden by the fountain, she had to break with him or they would have been destroyed, both of them ruined, she was convinced; though she had borne about with her for years like an arrow sticking in her heart the grief, the anguish; and then the horror of the moment when someone told her at a concert that he had married a woman met on the boat going to India! Never should she forget ail that! Cold, heartless, a prude, he called her. Never could she understand how he cared. But those Indian v/omen did presumably – silly, pretty, flimsy nincompoops. And she wasted her pity. For he was quite happy, he assured her-perfectly happy, though he had never done a thing that they talked of; his whole life had been a failure. It made her angry still.

She had reached the Park gates. She stood for a moment, looking at the omnibuses in Piccadilly.

Лекция 40

DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE

(1885-1930)

D. H. Lawrence was born in the family of a miner. With the help of a scholarship he attended Nottingham High School for three years but at 15 he was forced to give up his education and became a teacher. His first major novel “Sons and Lovers” is a faithful autobiographical account of those early years.

Lawrence was one of the very first among English writers to be absolutely outspoken on questions of love and sex; he looked upon sex as the chief factor shaping human existence. Lawrence believed that the evils of an unjust and corrupt society could be mitigated if men and women found warmth and happiness in love. The main subjects of his novels are the sufferings brought upon lovers by the clash of then conflicting wills, by the hatred and revolt that sometimes go hand in hand with love.

“Sons and Lovers”.

One evening in the summer Miriam and he went over thy fields by Herod's Farm on their way from the library home. So it was only three miles to Willey Farm. There was a yellow glow over the mowing-grass, and the sorrel-heads burned crimson. Gradual­ly, as they walked along the high land, the gold in the west sank down to red the red to crimson, and then the chill blue crept up against the glow.

They came out upon the high road to Alfreton, which ran white between the darkening fields. There Paul hesitated. It was two miles home for him, one mile forward for Miriam. They both looked up the road that ran in shadow right under the glow of the north-west sky. On the crest of the hill, Selby, with its stark houses and the up-pricked headstocks of the pit, stood in black silhouette small against the sky.

He looked at his watch.

“Nine o’clock!” he said.

The pair stood, loth to part, hugging their books.

“The wood is so lovely now,” she said. “I wanted you to see it.” He followed her slowly across the road to the white gate.

“They grumble so if I’m late,” he said.

“But you’re not doing anything wrong,” she answered impa­tiently.

He followed her across the nibbled pasture in the dusk. There was a coolness in the wood, a scent of leaves, of honeysuckle, and a twilight. The two walked in silence. Night came wonderfully there, among the throng of dark tree-trunks. He looked round, ex­pectant.

She wanted to show him a certain wild-rose bush she had discovered. She knew it was wonderful. And yet, till he had seen it, she felt it had not come into her soul. Only he could make it her own, immortal. She was dissatisfied.

Dew was already on the paths. In the old oak-wood a mist was rising, and he hesitated, wondering whether one whiteness were a strand of fog or only campion-flowers pallid in a cloud.

By the time they came to the pine-trees Miriam was getting very eager and very tense. Her bush might be gone. She might not he able to find it; and she wanted it so much. Almost passionately she wanted to be with him when he stood before the flowers. They were going to have a communion together – something that thrited her, something holy. He was walking beside her in silence. They were very near to each other. She trembled, and ho listened, vaguely anxious.

Coming to the edge of the wood, they saw the sky in front, like mother-of-pearl, and the earth growing dark. Somewhere on the outermost branches of the pine-wood the honeysuckle was streaming scent.

“Where?” he asked.

“Down the middle path,” she murmured, quivering.

When they turned the corner of the path she stood still. In the wide walk between the pines, gazing rather frightened, she could distinguish nothing for some moments; the greying light robbed things of their colour. Then she saw her bush.

“Ah!” she cried, hastening forward.

It was very still. The tree was tall and straggling. It had thrown its briers over a hawthorn-bush, and its long streamers trailed thick, right down to the grass, splashing the darkness everywhere with great spilt stars, pure white. In bosses of ivory and in lance splashed stars the roses gleamed on the darkness of foliage, and stems and grass. Paul and Miriam stood close together, silent, and watched. Point after point the steady roses shone out to then, seeming to kindle something in their souls. The dusk came like smoke around, and still did not put out the roses.

Paul looked into Miriam’s eyes. She was pale and expectant with wonder, her lips wore parted, and her dark eyes lay open to him. His look seemed to travel down into her. Her soul quivered. It was the communion she wanted. He turned aside, as if pained. He turned to the bush.

“They seem as if they walk like butterflies, and shako themselves,” he said.

She looked at her roses. They were white, some incurved and holy, others expanded in an ecstasy. The tree was dark as a shadow. She lifted her hand impulsively to the flowers; she went forward and touched them in worship.

“Let us go,” he said.

There was a cool scent of ivory roses – a white, virgin scent Something made him feel anxious and imprisoned. The two walked in silence.

“Till Sunday,” he said quietly, and left her; and she walked home slowly, feeling her soul satisfied with the holiness of the hight. He stumbled down the path. And as soon as he was out of the wood, in the free open meadow, where he could breathe, ho started to run as fast as he could. It was like a delicious delirium in his veins.

Лекция 41

ALDOUS LEONARD HUXLEY

A. L. Huxley was a grandson of Thomas Henry Huxley, the famous professor of Natural History and philosopher, a friend of Darwin. Aldous Huxley studie at Eton; he read English at Oxford. He wrote verses, stories and novels. “Crome Yellow” (1921), a country-house satire earned him a reputation for precocious brilliance and cynicism. “Point after Point” (1928) is a novel where Huxley appears as a keen observer whose stinging criticism lashes out against the rotten-ness of post-war England. Even then his criticism was entirely negative; he never ventured the narrow world of aristocracy, both titled and intellectual. Huxley used the sharp pen of a satirist, seeing through the falseness and hypocrisy of the upper classes and their intelligentsia.

“Crome Yellow”.

“Strange,” said Mrs. Betterton, “strange that a great artist should be such a cynic.” In Burlap’s company she preferred to believe that John Bidlake had meant what he said. Burlap on cynicism was uplifting and Mrs. Betterton liked to be uplifted. Uplifting too on an greatness, not to mention art. “For you must admit,” she added, “he is a great artist.”

Burlap nodded slowly. He did not look directly at Mrs. Betterton, but kept his eyes averted and downcast as though he were address­ing some little personage invisible to everyone but himself, standing to one side of her – his private demon, perhaps; an emanation from himself, a little Doppelganger. He was a man of middle height with a stoop and a rather slouching gait. His hair was dark, thick and curly, with a natural tonsure as big as a medal showing pink on the crown of his head. His grey eyes were very deeply set, his nose and chin pronounced but well shaped, his mouth full-lipped and rather wide. A mixture, according to old Bidlake, who was a caricaturist in words as well as with the pencil, of a movie villain and St. Anthony of Padua by a painter of the baroque, of a cardsharping Lothario and a rapturous devotee.

“Yes, a great artist,” he agreed, “but not of the greatest.” He spoke slowly, ruminatively, as though he were talking to himself. All his conversation was a dialogue with himself or that little Doppelgänger which stood invisibly to one side of the people he was supposed to be talking to; Burlap was unceasingly and exclusively self-conscious. “Not one of the greatest,” he repeated slowly. As it happened, he had just been writing an article about the subject-matter of art for next week’s number of the Literary World. “Pre­cisely because of that cynicism.” Should he quote himself? he wondered.

“How true that is!” Mrs. Betterton’s applause exploded perhaps a little prematurely; her enthusiasm was always on the boil. She clasped her hands together. “How true!” She looked at, Burlap’s averted face and thought it so spiritual, so beautiful in its way.

“How can a cynic be a great artist?” Burlap went on, having, decided that he’d spout his own article at her and take the risk of her recognizing it in print next Thursday. And even if she did re­cognize it, that wouldn’t efface the personal impression he’d made by spouting it. “Though why you want to make an impression,” a mocking devil had put in, “unless it’s because she’s rich and useful, goodness knows!” The devil was pitchforked back to where he came from. “One has responsibilities,” an angel hastily explained. “The lamp mustn’t be hidden under a bushel. One must let it shine, especially on people of good-will.” Mrs. Betterton was on the side of the angels; her loyalty should be confirmed. “A great artist, he went on aloud, “is a man who synthesizes all experience. The cynic sets out by denying half the facts – the fact of the soul, the fact of ideals, the fact of God. And yet we’re aware of spiritual facts just as directly and indubitably as we’re aware of physical facts.”

“Of course, of course!” exclaimed Mrs. Betterton.

“It’s absurd to deny either class of facts.” “Absurd to deny me, said the demon, poking out his head into Burlap’s conscious­ness.

“Absurd!”

“The cynic confines himself to only half the-world of possible experience. Less than half. For there are more spiritual than bodily experiences.”

“Infinitely more!”

“He may handle his limited subject-matter very well, Bidlake, I grant you, does. Extraordinarily well. He has all the sheer ability of the most consummate artists. Or had, at any rate.”

“Had,” Mrs. Betterton sighed. – “When I first knew him.” The implication was that it was her influence that had made him paint so well.

“But he’s always applied his powers to something small. What he synthesizes in his art was limited, comparatively unimportant.”

“That’s what I always told him,” said Mrs. Betterton, reinterpreting those youthful arguments about Pre-Raphaelitism in a new and for her own reputation, favourable light. “Consider Burne-Jones, I used to say.” The memory of John Bidlake’s huge and Rabelaisian laughter reverberated in her cars. “Not that Burne-Jones was a particularly good painter,” she hastened to add. (“He painted,” John Bidlake had said – and how shocked she had boon, how deeply offended! – “as though he had never seen a pair of buttocks in the whole of his life.”) “But his subjects were noble. If you had his dreams, I used to tell John Bidlake, if you had his ideals, you’d be a really great artist.”