W. J. Turner (1889–1946)

I struggled to get through this book. I found much of it overwrought, obscure and, at times, pain uninteresting. There was just enough that I found digestible to keep me going, and to lift it from 2- to 3-stars.

I don't think my opinion of Turner's work benefited from my immediately previous read having been Stevie Smith's Scorpion and Other Poems, which I enjoyed immensely and immediately. Smith, I felt, wrote from the heart, Turner from the head. The underlying warmth that Smith gave to her poems, even those dealing with death and loss, in Turner's treatment are rendered with a cold, cerebral detachment. I know nothing of Turner and his life or other writings, having picked up this book on a whim, so I may simply not be on his wavelength and, perhaps, have done him a disservice. Enough to say that he's not entirely my cup of tea.

His subjects include scientific advancement, homages to other poets, war (the book was published at the end of WWII - both Churchill and Hitler make brief appearances), love, and nature.

In summary, a heavy suet pudding of a book, with some occasional citrusy-peel bits to enliven it.… (altro)

England was once described as a land without music by Oscar Adolf Hermann Schmitz. The author blames this state of affairs on the English Civil War and the rise of joyless Puritanism, followed by the restoration of the the Stuarts, and their lack of interest in music; and finally the Industrial Revolution, when men were more concerned with making money. Turner's style is a little dry but still readable and a few more pages on English composers from Sullivan onwards wouldn't have gone amiss, though he ends on a justifiably optimistic note.… (altro)