Eggplant.place

151d

Four Famous American Women Who Were Also Prolific Letter Writers

In a long and storied tradition, these bold women recorded history—and shaped it—through their correspondence

By Sonja Anderson

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/four-famous-american-women-prolific-letter-writers-180987176/?utm_source=smithsoniandaily&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=editorial&lctg=93133550

#books #literature #history

Clockwise from top left: Abigail Adams, Harriet Jacobs, Zora Neale Hurston and Eleanor Roosevelt. Library of Congress (2); Getty Images; Public Domain

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151d

Emily Wilson Explores The Aeneid ’s Influence on the Contemporary Western World

“This ancient epic raises profound, provocative questions that are now more pressing than ever.”

https://lithub.com/emily-wilson-explores-the-aeneid-s-influence-on-the-contemporary-western-world/

Aeneid at PG:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/search/?query=Aeneid

#books #literature #drama

Virgil Reading the Aeneid to Augustus and Octavia,[52] by Jean-Joseph Taillasson, 1787, an early neoclassical painting (National Gallery, London).

The painting illustrates an episode described by the ancient writer Suetonius. The poet Virgil is shown reading aloud from the Aeneid to Emperor Augustus, his sister Octavia, and members of the imperial household.

Virgil is seated at the left, in a pale robe, holding a scroll, his body inclined forward as he reads. The central focus shifts immediately to Octavia, who is collapsing, overcome with emotion. She is dressed in white and supported by attendants, her faint dramatizing the deep pathos of the scene. To the right, Augustus sits in a position of authority,

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aeneid#/media/File:VirgilAeneidVI.jpg

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150d

Page Against the Machine: On the Poetics of AI Refusal

Pip Thornton documents and debates some of the outputs of ‘Writing the Wrongs of AI’, a project which explored creative ways to demonstrate the power that human words, poetics and writing might have in resisting the influence of artificial intelligence in the literary sphere and beyond.

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/2025/09/page-against-the-machine-on-the-poetics-of-ai-refusal/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #AI #genAI #generativeAI

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151d

A Beginner’s Guide to Gothic Literature

"Gothic literature began as a reaction to the Enlightenment and was influenced by medieval architecture. This article explores the origins of the Gothic literary genre."

https://www.thecollector.com/gothic-literature-beginner-guide/

#books #literature

Image shows darkness, the moon(?), a bird's eyes reflecting light, and a skull

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112d

We fecht to lowse oursels, we coup and skar
and joater menseless in the foazie grun,
feart to bide still, and fusionless to rin,
we plouter on, forfeuchan, through the haar…

—Robert Garioch, “The Bog”
published in A KIST O SKINKLAN THINGS (ASL, 2017)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/a-kist-o-skinlan-things/

#Scottish #literature #Scotstober #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage

Robert Garioch
The Bog

The lyft is lourd abuin the hechs and howes,
peat-bog and mist hae left nae space atween;
the puddock cours doun frae the wecht abuin,
here is nae leevin-space for men or yowes.

We fecht to lowse oursels, we coup and skar
and joater menseless in the foazie grun,
feart to bide still, and fusionless to rin,
we plouter on, forfeuchan, through the haar.

We rax doun, seeking rock, wi feet grown nesh
frae clatchin in thae never-ending clarts,
ettlin to traipse on stanes, to thole their scarts,
and win to some green haugh, kind to the flesh.

Tho weill we ken it's aye the same auld place,
we fuil oursels to pech and plouter on
frae this black oily puddle-hole to thon,
that gies the meisor of our hirple-pace.

Our thochts are aye on skinklan burns, dour rocks,
clean waters we cuid loup frae stane to stane,
bricht in the sun or weet wi dounricht rain,
dazzlit wi licht and stoun'd by solid shocks.

But maist we think of gangin ither airts,
whaur we micht hae faur distances in sicht,
think lang to traivel til a warld of bricht
pure colour in outlandish foreign pairts.

Sae we jalouse some howff juist owre the brae,
some hevin abuin the sterns, juist out of sicht,
whaur we cuid gae the morn, gin we micht
loup owre the muin, as did the famous quey.

Wanting some yirdlie hevin for Almains,
the Fuhrer maks a furore in our lugs;
we bield in ivory touers or Luftwaffe-skugs,
while bummlan boomers threaten broken banes.

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Thae men that fetch us boombs frae yont the seas,
heich in their Heinkels, ken the same despair;
they maun skite flat-out on the slidder air,
forever doomed, like us, to future ease.

Nou the impassioned banshees, in F-moll,
screich out wi siren voices, anger-riven,
Beethoven's chord of Opus 57,
the same that skeiched us in the Usher Hall.

The causey street we staund on shaks and shogs,
freestane fore-storey housses flee in air;
real super-realism everywhere
maks grand pianos mate wi clarty bogs.

The bog—I ken the feel o't weill eneuch,
tak its conditions, staund and dinnae fecht
to lowse my feet, and find it tholes my wecht
ablow the haar, gin but my heid be leugh.

And here are colours braw as onie shroud:
broun and dark broun, black and mair black, an aa
the fud or hint-end of the watergaw,
whaur I hae fand my forpit-met of gowd.

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151d

This far north, the harvest happens late.
Rooks go clattering over the sycamores
whose shadows yawn after them, down to the river.
Uncut wheat staggers under its own weight…

—Dorothy Lawrenson, “September”
Published in Painted, spoken 22

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/september/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #September

September
Dorothy Lawrenson

This far north, the harvest happens late.
Rooks go clattering over the sycamores
whose shadows yawn after them, down to the river.
Uncut wheat staggers under its own weight.

Summer is leaving too, exchanging its gold
for brass and copper. It is not so strange
to feel nostalgia for the present; already
this September evening is as old

as a photograph of itself. The light, the shadows
on the field, are sepia, as if this were
some other evening in September, some other
harvest that went ungathered years ago.

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152d

It’s Okay to Hate The House of Mirth

Carlo Rotella on Reading (and Learning) from Books We Dislike

https://lithub.com/its-okay-to-hate-the-house-of-mirth/?utm_source=Klaviyo&utm_medium=campaign&utm_id=01K455MNE7FGVP60QQ77KYY6ZB&_kx=3MZUehzXM-41qlWAMPUiuNZadX2p0SByuNf_t0eMLB0.U5D8ER

The House of Mirth at PG:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/search/?query=The+House+of+Mirth

#books #literature #literarycriticism

The tragic heroine of The House of Mirth (1905), Lily Bart, lingers at the broad staircase, observing the high-society people gathered in the hall below.

By A. B. Wenzell

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_House_of_Mirth#/media/File:House_of_Mirth_1.jpg

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152d

The mile-high buildings flashed, flushed, greyed, went dark,
greyed, flushed, flashed, chameleons under flak
of cloud and sun…

—Edwin Morgan, “Clydegrad”
CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS, Carcanet 2020

Today, 3 September, is Skyscraper Day

1/2

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781784109967/centenary-selected-poems/

#Scottish #literature #Glasgow #poem #poetry #ConcretePoetry #Skyscraper #SkyscraperDay

Clydegrad
Edwin Morgan

It was so fine we lingered there for hours.
The long broad streets shone strongly after rain.
Sunset blinded the tremble of the crane
we watched from, dazed the heliport-towers.
The mile-high buildings flashed, flushed, greyed, went dark,
greyed, flushed, flashed, chameleons under flak
of cloud and sun. The last far thunder-sack
ripped and spilled its grumble. Ziggurat-stark,
a power-house reflected in the lead
of the old twilight river leapt alive
lit up at every window, and a boat
of students rowed past, slid from black to red
into the blaze. But where will they arrive
with all, boat, city, earth, like them, afloat?

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Book cover

EDWIN MORGAN
CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS

edited by
HAMISH WHYTE

Carcanet Classics

The cover image shows a view looking up the face of a concrete tower block, angled against a star-strewn sky – as if the skyscraper was a starship, cruising the cosmos.

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151d

In advance of Tabletop Scotland this weekend, here’s Robert Louis Stevenson & his stepson, Lloyd Osbourne, on the huge wargame they developed & played in Davos:

“the war game was constantly improved and elaborated, until from a few hours ‘war’ took weeks to play, and the critical operations in the attic monopolized half our thoughts”

1/3

#Scottish #literature #19thcentury #Victorian #RobertLouisStevenson #wargame #wargaming #TabletopWargaming

STEVENSON AT PLAY
With an Introduction by Lloyd Osbourne

An illustration shows a number of 19th-century toy soldiers, some standing upright, a few fallen. In the background a large ball sends several toy soldiers flying into the air. A number of dramatic medallions depicting generals accompany the scene. One is Napoleon, astride a horse, carrying a banner. Others show the less famous generals "Pipes{, "Piffle", and "Potty".

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59d

Intil the pitmirk nicht we northwart sail
Facin the bleffarts and the gurly seas
That ser’ out muckle skaith to mortal men…

—J.K. Annand (1908–1993), “Arctic Convoy”
published in FROM THE LINE: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945 (ASL, 2014)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/from_the_line/

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #poem #poetry #warpoetry #ww2 #arctic

Arctic Convoy
J. K. Annand

Intil the pitmirk nicht we northwart sail
Facin the bleffarts and the gurly seas
That ser’ out muckle skaith to mortal men.
Whummlin about like a waukrife feverit bairn
The gude ship snowks the waters o a wave.
Swithers, syne pokes her neb intil the air,
Hings for a wee thing, dinnlin, on the crest,
And clatters in the trouch wi sic a dunt
As gey near rives the platin frae her ribs
And flypes the tripes o unsuspectin man.

Northwart, aye northwart, in the pitmirk nicht.
A nirlin wind comes blawin frae the ice,
Plays dirdum throu the rails and shrouds and riggin,
Ruggin at bodies clawin at the life-lines.
There’s sic a rowth o air that neb and lungs
Juist canna cope wi sic a dirlin onding.

Caulder the air becomes, and snell the wind.
The waters, splairgin as she dunts her boo,
Blads in a blatter o hailstanes on the brig
And geals on guns and turrets, masts and spars,
Cleedin the iron and steel wi coat o ice.

Northwart, aye northwart, in the pitmirk nicht.
The nirlin wind has gane, a lownness comes;
The lang slaw swall still minds us o the gale.
Restin aft-watch, a-sweein in our hammocks,
We watch our sleepin messmates’ fozy braith
Transmogrify to ice upon the skin
That growes aye thicker on the ship-side plates.

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Nae mair we hear the lipper o the water,
Only the dunsh o ice-floes scruntin by;
Floes that in the noon-day gloamin licht
Are lily leafs upon my lochan dubh.
But nae bricht lily-flouers delytes the ee,
Nae divin bird diverts amang the leafs,
Nae sea-bird to convoy us on our gait.

In ilka deid-lown airt smools Davy Jones,
Ice-tangle marline spikes o fingers gleg
To claught the bodies o unwary sailors
And hike them doun to stap intil his kist.
Whiles ‘Arctic reek’ taks on the orra shapes
O ghaistly ships-o-war athort our gait,
Garrin us rin ram-stam to action stations
Then see them melt awa intil the air.

Owre lang this trauchle lasts throu seas o daith,
Wi ne’er a sign o welcome at the port,
Nae ‘Libertymen fall in!’ to cheer our herts,
But sullen sentries at the jetty-heid
And leesome-lanesome waitin at our birth.

At length we turn about and sail for hame,
Back through rouch seas, throu ice and snaw and sleet,
Hirdin the draigelt remnant o our flock
Bieldin them weel frae skaith o enemie.
But southwart noo we airt intil the licht
Leavin the perils o the Arctic nicht.

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140d

4 Ways Jane Austen Was a Proto-Feminist Icon

Feminism as we know it today didn’t exist in Austen’s time—but there is still a great deal of feminist inspiration to be taken from the author’s novels, life, and legacy.

By Faye Keegan

https://www.mentalfloss.com/literature/authors/jane-austen-proto-feminist-icon

Jane Austen at PG:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/68

#books #literature

Back-view watercolour of Jane Austen by her sister Cassandra Austen, 1804.

The small, delicate sketch shows Jane Austen seated, turned away from the viewer. She wears a high-waisted gown with a bonnet tied under her chin and a soft scarf or ribbon draped around her shoulders.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Austen#/media/File:JaneAustenCassandraWatercolour.jpg

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1y

English author, poet, and gardener Vita Sackville-West was born #OTD in 1892.

She published more than a dozen collections of poetry and 13 novels during her life. She was twice awarded the Hawthornden Prize for Imaginative Literature: in 1927 for her pastoral epic, The Land, & in 1933 for her Collected Poems. She was the inspiration for the protagonist of Orlando: A Biography, by her friend & lover Virginia Woolf.

Vita Sackville-West at PG:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/34850

#books #literature #poetry

Sackville-West around 1915, from The Life of V.Sackville-West by Victoria Glendinning

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Cover page of Knole and the Sackvilles by V. Sackville-West

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1y

Zelda Fitzgerald died #OTD in 1948.

She was an American novelist, socialite, and the wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Zelda Fitzgerald herself was an important figure in the cultural scene of the 1920s and 1930s, known for her own writing, her artistic talents, and her tumultuous relationship with her husband. She struggled with mental health issues throughout her life and has been the subject of much fascination and analysis in literary and cultural circles.

#books #literature

Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald circa February 1920. According to Arthur Mizener's 1972 biography "Scott Fitzgerald and His World," page 43, this photograph was taken in February 1920 shortly before Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald were married.

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A sketch by Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald for The Beautiful and Damned drawn in 1921. She died in 1948.

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150d

#OTD in 1859, Harriet E. Wilson publishes her novel, Our Nig.

"Harriet E. Wilson (March 15, 1825 – June 28, 1900) was an African-American novelist. She was the first African American to publish a novel in North America."

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harriet_E._Wilson

"Our Nig" at PG:

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/584

#books #literature #africanamerican

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111d

The Next Generation of Scottish Writers

To celebrate their first 20 years THE SKINNY magazine presents their Next Generation of Scottish Writers: 12 poets, novelists & essayists who are shaping the future of Scotland's literary landscape

@writingcommunity

https://www.theskinny.co.uk/books/features/the-next-generation-of-scottish-writers

#Scottish #literature #writers #writing #writingcommunity

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140d

I gaed to spend a week in Fife—
An unco week it proved to be—
For there I met a waesome wife
Lamentin’ her viduity.
Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell,
I thought her heart wad burst the shell,
And,—I was sae left tae mysel,—
I sell’t her an annuity…

—“The Annuity” by George Outram (1805–1856)

Today, 15 September, is Pensions Awareness Day. Tak tent!

#Scottish #literature #19thcentury #Victorian #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #humor #pension #pensions

The Annuity
George Outram

I gaed to spend a week in Fife—
An unco week it proved to be—
For there I met a waesome wife
Lamentin’ her viduity.
Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell,
I thought her heart wad burst the shell,
And,—I was sae left tae mysel,—
I sell’t her an annuity.

The bargain lookit fair eneugh—
She just was turned o’ saxty-three—
I couldna guessed she’d prove sae teugh,
By human ingenuity.
But years have come, and years have gane,
And there she’s yet as stieve ’s a stane—
The limmer’s growin’ young again,
Since she got her annuity.

She’s crined awa’ to bane and skin,
But that, it seems, is naught to me;
She’s like to live—although she’s in
The last stage o’ tenuity.
She munches wi’ her wizened gums,
An’ stumps about on legs o’ thrums;
But comes—as sure as Christmas comes—
To ca’ for her annuity.

She jokes her joke, an’ cracks her crack,
As spunkie as a growin’ flea—
An’ there she sits upon my back,
A livin’ perpetuity.
She hurkles by her ingle side,
An’ toasts an’ toasts her wrunkled hide—
Lord kens how lang she yet may bide
To ca’ for her annuity.

I read the tables drawn wi’ care
For an Insurance Company;
Her chance o’ life was stated there,
Wi’ perfect perspicuity.
But tables here or tables there,
She’s lived ten years beyond her share,
An’s like to live a dizzen mair,
To ca’ for her annuity.

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$I got the loun that drew the deed— We spelled it o’er right carefully;— In vain he yerked his souple heid, To find an ambiguity: It’s dated—tested—a’ complete— The proper stamp—nae word delete— And diligence, as on decreet, May pass for her annuity. Last Yule she had a fearfu’ hoast,— I thought a kink might set me free; I led her out, ’mang snaw and frost, Wi’ constant assiduity. But deil ma’ care—the blast gaed by, And missed the auld anatomy; It just cost me a tooth, forbye Discharging her annuity. I thought that grief might gar her quit— Her only son was lost at sea— But aff her wits behoved to flit, An’ leave her in fatuity! She threeps, an’ threeps, he’s livin’ yet, For a’ the tellin’ she can get; But catch the doited runt forget To ca’ for her annuity! If there’s a sough o’ cholera, Or typhus,—wha sae gleg as she? She buys up baths, an’ drugs, an’ a’, In siccan superfluity! She doesna need—she’s fever proof— The pest gaed owre her very roof— She tauld me sae—an’ then her loof Held out for her annuity. Ae day she fell, her arm she brak— A compound fracture as could be— Nae leech the cure wad undertak, Whate’er was the gratuity. It’s cured! She handles ’t like a flail— It does as weel in bits as hale— But I’m a broken man mysel Wi’ her and her annuity.$

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Her broozled flesh and broken banes
Are weel as flesh and banes can be;
She beats the tades that live in stanes,
An’ fatten in vacuity!
They die when they’re exposed to air—
They canna thole the atmosphere—
But her!—expose her onywhere—
She lives for her annuity.

If mortal means could nick her thread,
Sma’ crime it wad appear to me—
Ca’ t murder—or ca’ t homicide—
I’d justify ’t—an’ do it tae.
But how to fell a withered wife
That’s carved out o’ the tree of life—
The timmer limmer dares the knife
To settle her annuity.

I’d try a shot—but whar’s the mark?—
Her vital parts are hid frae me;
Her back-bane wanders through her sark
In an unkenned corkscrewity.
She’s palsified, an’ shakes her head
Sae fast about, ye scarce can see ’t—
It’s past the power o’ steel or lead
To settle her annuity.

She might be drowned;—but go she’ll not
Within a mile o’ loch or sea;
Or hanged—if cord could grip a throat
O’ siccan exiguity.
It’s fitter far to hang the rope—
It draws out like a telescope—
’Twad tak’ a dreadfu’ length o’ drop
To settle her annuity.

Will poison do ’t?—It has been tried.
But, be’t in hash or fricassee,
That’s just the dish she can’t abide,
Whatever kind o’ goût it hae.
It’s needless to assail her doubts,—
She gangs by instinct—like the brutes,—
An’ only eats an’ drinks what suits
Hersel an’ her annuity.

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The Bible says the age o’ man
Threescore and ten, perchance, may be;
She’s ninety-four—Let them wha can
Explain the incongruity.
She should hae lived afore the flood—
She’s come o’ patriarchal blood—
She’s some auld Pagan, mummified
Alive for her annuity.

She’s been embalmed inside and oot—
She’s sauted to the last degree—
There’s pickle in her very snoot
Sae caper-like an’ cruety.
Lot’s wife was fresh compared to her—
They’ve kyanized the useless knir,—
She canna decompose—nae mair
Than her accursed annuity.

The water-drap wears out the rock,
As this eternal jaud wears me;
I could withstand the single shock,
But not the continuity.
It’s pay me here, an’ pay me there—
An’ pay me, pay me, evermair—
I’ll gang demented wi’ despair—
I’m charged for her annuity!

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147d

Glory Edim on Jessie Redmon Fauset’s Remarkable—and Forgotten—Plum Bun

Remembering the Work of “The Crisis” Editor and Harlem Renaissance Writer

https://lithub.com/glory-edim-on-jessie-redmon-fausets-remarkable-and-forgotten-plum-bun/

Harlem Renaissance at PG:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/subjects/search/?query=Harlem+Renaissance

#books #literature

From The New York Public Library:

Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, Jean Blackwell Hutson Research and Reference Division, The New York Public Library. "Jessie Redmon Fauset." The New York Public Library Digital Collections. 1923. https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/70706be0-c6dc-012f-dd26-58d385a7bc34

Fauset is posed in a straightforward, composed manner, facing slightly toward the camera.

She wears refined clothing typical of the early 20th century. Her dress is modest yet elegant, with soft fabric at the collar.

https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/70706be0-c6dc-012f-dd26-58d385a7bc34?canvasIndex=0

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149d

The relentless brilliance of Muriel Spark

“I am not here to say that all a career in letters requires is tenacity and a can-do attitude, but rather that knowing the challenges Spark overcame makes me doubly grateful for her.’

Lauren J. Joseph reflects on a quality many writers have to develop – the “sheer bloody-mindedness” Spark had in spades.

https://www.rlf.org.uk/posts/the-relentless-brilliance-of-muriel-spark/

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #womenwriters #MurielSpark #writing

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148d

He moves the way light moves: now sudden,
racing up a field as sun clears cloud…

—Sheenagh Pugh, “Him Again”
Published in A Little Touch of Cliff in the Evening: New Writing Scotland 30 (ASL, 2012)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry

HIM AGAIN
Sheenagh Pugh

He moves the way light moves: now sudden,
racing up a field as sun clears cloud,

now unnoticed, leaching from the world
until you look up into dark.

And he inhabits next door's peat stack,
waiting for winter, and the fat sheep

ready for the show, and the gap
in the window of what was a house

and is a shed, and soon will be out of use.
The berries that were once white blossom

on the brambles belong to him,
so they say, and lose all their taste

on a certain day, when he comes to harvest
what is alive, and ripe, and his own.

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147d

Hear Joey Ramone Sing a Piece by John Cage Adapted from James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake

https://www.openculture.com/2025/08/hear-joey-ramone-sing-a-piece-adapted-from-james-joyces-finnegans-wake.html

“The Wonderful Widow of Eighteen Springs"

#books #music #literature

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147d

OUT NOW!

The International Companion to the Scottish Novel
Ed. by Cairns Craig
£24.95 | €29.95 | $29.95

This INTERNATIONAL COMPANION assesses the work of Scottish novelists – writing in English, Gaelic, & Scots – from the eighteenth century to the present, & confronts constructions of nationality, identity, & form.

Available from all good booksellers & online via Project MUSE

@litstudies

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/companions/ic10/

#Scottish #literature #novel #novels #novelists #literarystudies

Book cover. On the top half, in white letters on a green background, text reads

The International Companion to THE SCOTTISH NOVEL
Edited by Cairns Craig

Underneath is a detail from “When Children Are Asleep” (1885), by Thomas Faed (1825–1900). A woman wearing a simple, pale grey Victorian dress and a white bonnet, with a yellow shawl around her shoulders, sits next to a small fireplace, reading a book. She holds the book in her right hand, and puts down her left hand to warm it in the orange glow of the fireplace. Behind her, in a half-open box-bed, two small children are asleep.

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Contents

Series Editors’ Preface
Acknowledgements

Introduction (Cairns Craig)
1. Smollett and the Novel in Scotland (Aileen Douglas)
2. The Philosophical Foundations of the Scottish Novel (Cairns Craig)
Document 1 – Mrs Oliphant: ‘Walter Scott’
3. Walter Scott, the Reader, and the Times after Time (Caroline McCracken-Flesher)
Document 2 – Georg Lukács: from The Historical Novel
4. The Scottish Novel in the Wake of Walter Scott, 1815–1830 (Charles Snodgrass)
5. The Victorian Novel of Spiritual Crisis and the Disruption of Scottish Literary History (Juliet Shields)
Document 3 – Robert Louis Stevenson: ‘A Humble Remonstrance’
6. From the Nineteenth to the Twentieth Century (Andrew Nash)
Document 4 – Edwin Muir: from Scott and Scotland
7. The Scottish Novel in the Interwar Years (Glenda Norquay)
Document 5 – Lewis Grassic Gibbon: ‘Literary Lights’
8. From the Second World War to the 1970s (Eleanor Bell)

ALT

Contents (continued)

Document 6 – Muriel Spark: from ‘The Desegregation of Art’
9. The Scottish Novel 1979–1999 (Carole Jones)
Document 7 – James Kelman: ‘Elitism and English Literature’
10. The First Hundred Years of the Gaelic Novel (Moray Watson)
11. Scottish Detective Fiction (Matthew Wickman)
12. Scottish Science Fiction and Fantasy (Anna McFarlane)
13. Scottish Children’s and Young Adult Fiction (Fiona McCulloch)
14. Into the Twenty-First Century (Cairns Craig)

Endnotes
Further Reading
Notes on Contributors
Index

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140d

It’s been a long Indian summer
and the hips are rotting on the beach rose.

I can almost taste their sour skins –
red balls of seeds glistening…

—Marion McCready, “Rose Hips and Thistles”
from MADAME ECOSSE (Eyewear Books, 2017)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/rose-hips-and-thistles/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #autumn #september

Rose Hips and Thistles
by Marion McCready

It’s been a long Indian summer
and the hips are rotting on the beach rose.

I can almost taste their sour skins –
red balls of seeds glistening

like fiery cauldrons in the late September sun;
green tentacles dripping below.

I’m dreaming of exotic gentians,
alpines, delphiniums.

But it’s the last of the flowering thistles
that stand before me

with their decadent helmets and feathers.
I think of Ellen Willmott

secretly scattering thistle seeds
in her neighbours’ gardens,

spreading pieces of herself – a legacy, to grow
and grow again when her body

is lowered to feed the earth
in a last great act of love.

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148d

Susan Ferrier (1782–1854) was born #OTD, 7 September. Her three novels—Marriage, The Inheritance, & Destiny—are vivid & humorous accounts of Scottish society. Often compared to her contemporary Jane Austen, Ferrier’s satires are much more vicious…

A 🎂🧵

@litstudies

1/8

https://www.scottishwomenwritersontheweb.net/writers-a-to-z/susan-ferrier

#Scottish #literature #Regency #18thcentury #19thCentury #romanticism #WomenWriters #SusanFerrier #JaneAusten