Manny Rayner's book reviews

I live in Cambridge, England, and Rupert Brooke is our local poet. To be absolutely correct, he's Grantchester's local poet; Grantchester is a picturesque little village about a mile and a half up the river from Cambridge proper. We often walk there on Sunday, and have a cup of tea and a scone in the Orchard, which used to be one of Rupert's favorite haunts. They remember him well, and have even a room that serves as the Rupert Brooke Museum. Admission is free.

If you've never heard of him, don't feel uneducated. I'm trying to find a short phrase that describes his poetry. "Totally fucking awful" is, I'm afraid, the first one that comes to mind. Though "sentimental", "cloying", "sickly", "technically unimpressive" and "derivative" all have their merits too. None the less, I think I still prefer my first choice. He's utterly dire. So, you're wondering, why do people still remember this terrible poet? Well, there are in fact several good reasons. First, he was remarkably good-looking. Check out this picture, for example. A certain resemblance to Hugh Grant, wouldn't you agree?



Second, Rupert mixed with an amazingly select group of friends. The Orchard is delighted to let you know about the high-powered gang who used to meet up there. Here's how I imagine Rupe might have launched one of his best-known efforts:

RUPERT BROOKE: [just finishing up] ...And laughs the immortal river still
Under the mill, under the mill?
Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain?... oh! yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?

Thanks. Well, what do you think?

VIRGINIA WOOLF: [who obviously has something of a crush on him] It's so, ah, so, [she notices BERTRAND RUSSELL's expression and decides to play it safe] so YOU, Rupert!

BERTRAND RUSSELL: [completely dead-pan] Yes, I must agree with Virginia. I couldn't have put it better. What do you say, Ludwig?

LUDWIG WITTGENSTEIN: [ditto] Of that we cannot speak, thereof we must be silent.

AUGUSTUS JOHN: [looking up from sketch-pad] Oh, good heavens, have you finished already? I wish I could actually listen to those wonderful poems, but as soon as I saw the line of your profile I had to draw you again, as usual...

JOHN MAYNARD KEYNES: [glancing at watch] I'm terribly sorry, I must go immediately. I promised to telegraph the Chancellor of the Exchequer not later than than four. Rupert, thank you so much old chap...

You get the picture. And then he was tragically killed in the Great War. Well, of course people remember him!

So, if you aren't sure your writing's good enough to guarantee you immortal fame, I hope I've given you some useful tips. Look like a movie star; make friends with a few of the greatest geniuses of your age; and die a hero's death while you're still young and tasty. I promise you, it works every time.