Tuesday, February 18, 2014

On the Wireless and Elsewhere..2.. Charles Causley

photo from wiki thanks

Charles Causley

I'd downloaded a selection of episodes of Desert Island discs as treasures to listen to as I tootle about and I chanced upon this episode this morning and it was lovely. Mr Plomley and Mr Causley certainly gave the impression of settling down for a very relaxed and enjoyable chat. It was a pleasure to listen to. Interesting and gently entertaining in a very well mannered way. His life story and musical choices were quite delightful and his voice lovely with a nice touch of self depreciating humour in it.

Discussing the real joys of travel Mr Causley pointed out the dangers

"One mustn't do too much of it, a very dangerous thing for a writer he should Stay home and get on with the job............................the thing about All creativity  is that it's a compulsion, one never really feels one wants to do it, one tries to invent all kinds of jobs that will, er, prevent one from making a start, if you know what I mean, but it is compulsion, one gets a notion in ones head that sort of ticks away, and it really gives one no rest until, it's been laid like a kind of ghost, then something else slowly begins to appear.."

Charles Causley in his own words talking to Roy Plomley in 1979 on Desert Island Discs Here

A brief Biography at the Charles Causley society here

from The Independent in  November 1998

Causley at the Poetry Archive 

His obituary from the Guardian here

A lovely celebration by Susan Hill is here  and I can't resist quoting the last paragraph of it

"I think he knew the value of his own work. But he was never vain, never anything but young in heart and spirit.
Shortly after receiving the Heywood Hill prize, he was made a Companion of Literature by the Royal Society of Literature, a rare honour, and asked me, again, to accept on his behalf. "What would you like me to say?" I asked.
The reply might well have been: "What an honour." Or perhaps, "What a surprise . . ."
But our greatest living poet, aged 83, asked me to say, "My goodness, what an encouragement." "

from an old gravestone

If you hold your nose to the Grindstone
and you leave it there long enough,
Then soon you'll say
there's no such things
as brooks that babble
and birds that sing,
these three will all your world compose,
just you, the stone and your poor old nose.

(from memory so may not be word perfect)