"I could resurrect the dead, but I choose to resurrect the living."



This is a media lifestyle blog, for those of use who eat, sleep, and breathe stories. Much media analysis and criticism is posted, but occasional forays into fashion, food, decorating, and other pursuits are made. If you live your life according to your best-loved characters, in the tone of the show you're currently marathoning, and with the soundtrack of your favorite game, you might be one of us.

These trousers used to belong to W. H. Auden, who gave them to me when he was living in Oxford. He was handing me a petit four biscuit when he inadvertently knocked over the teapot, drenching my trousers with hot Lapsang Souchong, and Kindly looked out a spare pair for me to wear home. Just as I was about to parcel them up in order to return them, I received the news of his death, and that is how I came to be wearing them now.

When W.H. Auden was living in Switzerland, before his move to Oxford, he was visited by a group that included Louis MacNeice, and at the end of the stay when they were engaged in a last game of strip poker, the taxi arrived to take the guests to the train. In the rush to get ready, MacNeice put on the wrong pair of trousers, leaving his own with W. H. Auden, who passed them on to me.

The other day I was wearing these trousers, which were given to me by W. H. Auden, who got them from Louis MacNeice, when I happened to bump in to Ted Hughes. “Eh up, lad”, he said. “By gum, them’s a reet gradely pair o’trousers tha’s wearing.”

Dylan Thomas became so drunk one evening in the French Pub in Soho that he passed out in the gents, and the landlord put him to bed, kindly taking his trousers to sponge them down. The next day Dylan Thomas departed for America, so the landlord gave the trousers to Louis MacNeice to look after, and when Thomas’s death was announced , MacNeice was stuck with them until he lost them to Wystan Auden, who handed them on to me.

The other day I was wearing these trousers, which were given to me by Wystan Auden, who got them from Louis MacNeice, who got them from the landlord of the French Pub, who got them from Dylan Thomas, when I happened to bump in to Hugh MacDiarmid. “Och, Laddie”, he said. Yon’s a braw muckle reekit pair of breeks you’re wearing.”

Evelyn Waugh, while performing as a panellist on the Brain’s Trust, had taken these trousers with him intending to drop them off later at his tailor to be shortened. However, so incensed was he by the behaviour of Professor Joad that he left the trousers in the studio where they had found Dylan Thomas, who left them with the landlord of the French Pub, who gave them to Louis MacNeice, who lost them to Wystan Auden, who passed them on to me.

The other day I was wearing these trousers, which were given to me by Wystan Auden, who got them from Louis MacNeice, who got them from the Landlord of the French Pub, who got them from Dylan Thomas, who got them from Evelyn Waugh, when I happened to bump in to Charles Causley. “Well, bwoy”, he said. “Thik be a voine girt pair of britches you’m awearing.”

George Orwell, who fought and was wounded in the Spanish Civil War, came into the possession of these trousers on the death of John Cornford when, due to an administrative cock-up, they were not returned to his family with his other effects, and asked Cecil Day Lewis to take them back to England for him. When he reached London Day Lewis left them for a short while with the porter at White’s, who gave them in error to Evelyn Waugh, who left them at the BBC where they were found by Dylan Thomas, who left them with the Landlord of the French Pub, who gave them to Louis MacNeice, who lost them to Wystan Auden, who passed them on to me.

The other day I was wearing these trousers, which were given to me by Wystan Auden, who got them from Louis MacNeice, who got them from the Landlord of the French Pub, who got them from Dylan Thomas, who got them from Evelyn Waugh, who got them from the porter at White’s, who got them from Cecil Day Lewis, who got them from George Orwell, who got them from John Cornford, when I happened to bump in to Seamus Heaney. “Begob, Paddy”, he said. “There’s a lovely pair of moleskins you’re after wearing, to be sure.”

The poetess Frances Cornford, who wrote the lines describing Rupert Brooke as “A young Apollo, golden haired, / Standing on the verge of strife, / Magnificently unprepared / For the long littleness of life”, came into the possession of these trousers when Rupert Brooke left them in her garden in Cambridge after a bathing party. Brooke had been wearing them at the Café des Westerns in Berlin on the day in May, 1912, when he wrote his famous poem about the Old Vicarage, Grantchester. Frances Cornford gave them to her son, John, who was killed in the Spanish Civil War, where George Orwell gave them to Cecil Day Lewis to bring back to London, where he left them with the porter at White’s, who gave them to Evelyn Waugh, who left them at the BBC where they were found by Dylan Thomas, who left them with the landlord of the French Pub, who gave them to Louis MacNeice, who lost them to Wystan Auden, who passed them on to me.

The other day I was wearing these trousers, which were given to me by Wystan Auden, who got them from Louis MacNeice, who got them from the Landlord of the French Pub, who got them from Dylan Thomas, who got them from Evelyn Waugh, who got them from the porter at White’s, who got them from Cecil Day Lewis, who got them from George Orwell, who got them from John Cornford, who got them from his mother, Frances Cornford, who got them from Rupert Brooke, when I happened to bump in to John Betjeman. “Golly, Wade”, he said. “You’re sporting a jolly fine pair of bags. Would you mind awfully telling me where you got them?”

And I did.

– Nicholas Wade, Nicholas Wade’s Trousers

fireandwonder:

ccharlesxavier:

i want a show called Man Vs. Wilde where someone is put in the jungle with oscar wilde and has to survive not only the elements but also wilde’s random attacks and massive ego

No. 

Mann vs. Wilde.

Thomas Mann’s pretensiousness and sexual repression vs. Oscar Wilde’s sarcasm and blatant queerness.

Give it to me.

fookyeahconradveidt:

folkmessiah:

gonna watch some HISTORICAL FICTION gonna become EMOTIONALLY INVESTED gonna learn TRUE FACTS gonna get PUMPED gonna go to the LIBRARY

#gonna read some SECONDARY HISTORICAL NARRATIVES, #gonna find they’re 40% NOT TRUE, #gonna go to THE ARCHIVES, #gonna handle ORIGINAL DOCUMENTS, #gonna tell people about THE TRUFAX.

snakeandladders:

People always seem to just run with the idea that “all interpretations are true”, but forget the corollary that “all interpretations are true so long as they’re rational and you can derive it from evidence in the text”. And by this, I mean that there’s a limit to fan interpretations/theories/headcanons that you can come up with before it sounds like you’re talking about a whole different work entirely.   

swanjolras:

man this has been said before by cleverer folks than me, but sometimes you have to sit down and let the sheer size and age of the storytelling tradition just completely overwhelm you, ja feel?

like— think for a second about how mind-bogglingly incredible it is that we know who osiris is? that somebody just made him up one day, and told stories about him to their kids, and literally thousands and thousands of years later we are still able to go “there was a god whose brother cut him into pieces”, it’s so arbitrary, it’s so incredible

that in talking about scheherazade and her husband, you are doing something that someone in every single generation has done since it was written— you are telling stories that have lasted an impossible amount of time 

can you conceive of telling a story, and then traveling into the future and hearing that same story told— with alterations, and through media that you could not possibly conceive of, but your story— in the year 3214?

the fact that we! as a species! have been telling the same damn stories for so long— the fact that we’ve seen homer’s troy and chaucer’s troy and shakespeare’s troy and troy with fucking brad pitt because we never fucking stop telling stories! never ever ever!

we never stop caring about stories, or returning to the same stories, or putting our own spins on stories. we never stop talking about the characters as if they were real, or asking what happened next, or asking to hear it again.

generation after generation, they never ever ever stop mattering to us.

gayturians:

don’t say you’re a writer if you just write fanfiction for your entertainment. you’re only a writer if you kill a bear with a typewriter to appease the spirit of hemingway and slather yourself in ink in tribute to shakespeare, the one true over-penis of literature.