Hello Gentle Reader,
When it comes to literary form, biography is the one which teeters perpetually on the brink of collapse. The prospect of capturing a singular life from cover to cover, filling each page with veracity and amusing anecdote, is by no means an easy feat. There’s also a question of politeness. Perhaps what a skilled biographer would describe as the principle of doing no harm weighted against the value of truth, as the two are not always synonymous with one another. No biographer, however, would want to be accused of having an axe to grind and as such committing a hatchet job on their subject. The perfect literary assassination, with the subject dead and unable to retort or refute the findings of research and unearthed gossip. Prime opportunity to air out the closets and reveal the catacombs of misdeeds. A treasure trove of terror and horror, which will surely shock, disturb and disgust the reading public. Who despite their audible protests and verbal judgements, delight in pecking at the depravity now served up on offer. Without this appetite, true crime as a genre would have already gone extinct. The truth is people enjoy a salacious and scandalous reveal. Schadenfreude is a particular pleasure which people participate in. Whereas autobiography is quite contrary as a literary form. The definition of self-indulgent. The first step in a relaunch for many public personalities and celebrities to regain lost ground. Whereas for others, it’s means and method in which to settle accounts, old scores and set the record straight. An autobiography is always slightly skewered. Sprouting from the wellspring of one’s own life by their own recollection. How convenient. Though there is the understanding that if you write your own narrative (obviously ending before your dead) all those unwanted secrets remain hidden. Memoir though is perhaps a politer mercurial term. It carries an air of sophistication steering clear from the egoist and self-serving motivations and connotations shadowing and haunting the term autobiography.
How a biographer approaches their subject is certainly a matter of personal style. When it comes to academics and historians, it’s easy to imagine they approach their subject with a distinct sense of time, distance and understanding. An appreciation of different temporal realities and therefore by extension worlds is clearly a pre-requisite in which to review any period in retrospect. How else can one reconcile their subject’s casual brutality? Yet, when lopping off limbs was a reality of warfare or a permanent signifier of crime committed and justice served; one can’t argue with the social code of the time, let alone apply contemporary moral judgements and attitudes to it. Instead, these social realities are required to be notated and explained, providing context and texture to the reality of the subject and their own position within them. While other subjects leave behind not just a trove of information, but a dragon’s hoard, as in the case of Patricia Highsmith. Whose two biographers: Andrew Wilson and Joan Schenkar, inherited a wealth of personal papers, information, private thoughts, confessions and details that including every revelation in the subsequent biography would be impossible. Both biographers viewed the self-oriented meticulous chronicling, documenting and self autopsying by the otherwise renowned recluse and viciously private writer, with a sense of perverse irony; but understood in turn that Patricia Highsmith was setting the record straight or at the very least providing her version of events. Andrew Wilson and Joan Schenkar worked with these details very differently. Wilson’s biography was linear and conventional inform; while Schenkar layered her biography on detail after detail, creating a dark labyrinth in which to get consumed and lost in in the life of the subject, who was dark and obsessive and intriguing. Which were only further confirmed and proven by the subject’s own testimony. As far as biographers go, Ian Collins is neither a distant academic or historian; not a journalist or a fellow writer commissioned to crack at writing a biography. Rather, Ian Collins was a dear friend of Ronald Blythe, who would later become the literary executor and pen the marvelous biography: “Blythe Spirit: The Remarkable Life of Ronald Blythe,” which opens with a wonderful memory and image of both the subject and the otherworldly sanctuary that the is the legendary Bottengoms Farm:
“One hot August day in 1988 I took in a sweeping view on the Suffolk-Essex border and then dropped into a green tunnel – like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.
A deep track fell and rose and wound towards the River Stour and first to a Tudor longhouse almost engulfed by a wildly magical garden. Within this sheltered hollow there was a murmuring of birds and a tapping of typewriter keys. The sounds were oddly in unison.
The door stood open. A robin hopped among stacked plant pots in a room which appeared to be outside the house and outside time as I had previously known it. Then, bounding down the stairs, at the age of sixty-five, came Ronald Blythe. A purposeful man of letters momentarily resembled the White Rabbit.”
Throughout his 100 years, Ronald Blythe accumulated an array of introductions and accolades. When appearing on the radio program Desert Island Discs, Blythe was introduced as follows:
“As Akenfield has become a classic, so its author has become this country’s literary custodian of its rural values.”
The rugged scholar and writer of human civilisations relationship with the natural world, Robert Macfarlane, once described Blythe as a: Grounded-Truther. Other monikers include, the Sage of Wormingford, Scribe of the English Countryside and the Bard of Rural England. For many though, Ronald Blythe was affectionally known as Ronnie. Ian Collins description of Blythe as on par with the White Rabbit from “Alice in Wonderland,” affirms the spritely vernal figure Blythe strikes and embodies. Rather faun* like. Lithe and spirited; the personifications of spring’s renewal and fertility. Even in appearance there was a Cervidae structure to Blythe. A limber and supple frame retaining a dexterous youthful flexibility throughout the years, having been maintained by a lifetime of never learning to drive, which was instead supplemented by a sustained embracement of cycling along country lanes and roads; undertaking long walks along the countryside; in addition to gardening, which Ronald Blythe was equally renowned for alongside his writing. While never satyr in qualities of unrestrained passion or lustful pursuits; Blythe was a reveler of the seasonal changes and liturgical calendar, giving thanks and celebration in tow. While in turn, there were brief and discreet dalliances; but that is all they were. Brief moments of shared intimacy, nothing substantial with no long-term prospect. For Blythe, notions of romance were secondary and tertiary concerns to these literary ambitions, and there was an understanding early on that any frolic or foray into romance would inevitably be a death sentence to any aspiring literary career. The narrative regarding the bachelor turned steadfast apostle of literary pursuit is further thickened by the quiet understanding and uncomplicated fact that Ronald Blythe was gay. No pronouncement, no fuss or concern. In a time where homosexuality was not only criminalised, but considered a mental illness; a state of being which could be cured or rehabilitated into remission by embracing a heterosexual mindset. All of this is further enriched by the paradoxical reality of Ronald Blythe’s faith, having been a devote Anglican, and ordained and operating as a lay reader of the Church of England. Blythe, however, provided the impression of having been unbothered by all these competing contrary components of his being. They were in fact remediated and reconciled accordingly. Perhaps twofold: divinely and naturally. Blythe’s sexuality was merely a fact and facet of nature and as such a reflection of God, whose love was infinite. What may have caused a spirit or existential crisis in others, Blythe tended to without concern, allowing both facets to exist either in cohesive harmony or at the very least perpendicular. All while exercising reasonable caution and judgement to maintain a sense of safety and avoid suspicion. In his later years, readers of “Blythe Spirit: The Remarkable Life of Ronald Blythe,” maybe be somewhat surprised to learn there was an embracement of Silenus indulgences. Rest assured, Blythe was far from shepherding or providing pastoral care with a thyrsus in hand. Though the figure of Silenus is not without wisdom – often described as arcane and deep in spirit and scope – which is perhaps best summarised by the Romans themselves: In vino veritas. Throughout it at all, Ronald Blythe remains a verdant figure. A green shadow. Better yet, a contemporary green man rising from folkloric roots of time immemorial, providing commentary on the natural worlds passage throughout the celestial calendar; the personality of each season, each with their own marvel; while reviewing the rural world as it is and preserving the memory of what was.
Ronald Blythe is best remembered for the now classic agrarian work: “Akenfield: Portrait of an English Village,” first published in the late 60’s. The book itself proved to defy categorization and easy literary taxonomy. It was not a point of journalism. It could not be a study or work of anthropology or sociology, as these were academic disciplines of the fine school of humanities and as such were governed by authorities, scholars and experts. None of which Blythe answered to. Oral history, as it is now known, was still in its niche infancy stages. At best it was a piece of rustic ethnography or an authentic rough scrabble piece of social survey. Blythe preferred to look “Akenfield,” as an undefinable testament on a sense of life now in the twilight shadow of extinction and a countryside on the verge of industrial transformation. It captures a tapestry of experiences, memories and remembered conversations through reimagined and reworked local figures, who were often described and defined by their occupation or vocation. Inevitably, the book would transform Ronald Blythe’s life and define him as Patricia Highmith herself wrote in praise of Blythe:
“You are making your reputation as the most reliable non-fiction writer of our era. No fiction writer is reliable, of course, one doesn’t expect it.”
This is further supported by what would become the legendary series of columns known as the: Word from Wormingford, which appeared on the back page of the Church Times. To quote The Guardian, the column was: “one of the most elegant and thoughtful columns in British journalism.” And who could disagree? The columns were later collected into a series of annual editions: “River Diary,” “Bookman’s Tale,” “Stour Seasons,” “Under a Broad Sky,” to name a few, and would later be anthologised into a selected assembly: “Out of the Valley,” and the final centenary commemorative compendium, “Next to Nature: A Lifetime in the English Countryside.” While it is true, that Ronald Blythe is indeed remembered and referenced by “Akenfield,” the Word from Wormingford columns showcase Blythe at the pinnacle of his literary powers. Ian Collins put it best: “But his greatness as a writer was to come with great age.” These rural missives formed almanacs filled with literary, spiritual and philosophical observations and thought, which would enrich any reader:
“Gems of observation, memory, meditation quotation, appreciation and acceptance illuminated lyrical prose zooming from personal to universal in a sentence and time-travelling in a short paragraph – pondering the past and what might pass for eternity, while always praising the present. ‘And remember that the moth and rust must eventually reduce all that you physically possess to dust. A dancing dust, judging by the motes caught in the early March sun which streams through my room.’”
Despite this, Blythe’s literary career and readership would suffer neglect as the 20th century emerged to greet an impending new millennium:
“In 1999 ‘Akenfield,’ appeared as a penguin modern classic, though subject and author seemed not be modern at all. In the metropolitan world of contemporary literature around a new millennium, Ronald Blythe was dismissed as a rural, nature or regional writer. While still shinning as an anthologist and advocate, an original and universal author maturing into magnificence was eclipsed. When Viking Penguin gave way to Canterbury Press for Word from Wormingford compilations, he was further marginalised as a Christian writer.”
How sad, considering only a decade or more before, Blythe would have been considered a literary statesman in his own right. Ronald Blythe was one of judges of the now famous 1980’s Booker Prize. The same one which saw Anthony Burgess the favourite to win the award with his masterpiece “Earthly Power,” who also refused to attend the ceremony unless he was guaranteed to win the prize in advance. Blythe’s heart and personal favourite was J.L. Carr’s quiet poetic novel “A Month in the Country,” which details a traumatised veteran of the First World War finding quietude and solace in the countryside. Ultimately, William Golding would win the prize for “Rites of Passage,” – the decision famously made 30 minutes before the announcement – and for a while the English literati praised their foresight, with Golding going to win the Nobel Prize 3 years later.
The ease in which Ronald Blyth was dismissed, betrays in essence the ignorance of the publishing industry and the writers they publish; but also, how easily they fall into chasing the shimmering illusion of the next big hit. The enduring fad that maybe, just maybe, turn into something substantial and long-lasting. Despite his faith, it would be inappropriate to call Blythe a Christian writer. There is no evangelical firebrand zealotry in his work. Those seeking affirmative discourse on fire and brimstone and condemnation of the heathen sin bound secular majority, will be left disappointed (if not thoroughly outraged) by what they found instead; as Blythe’s treatment of faith routinely diverged into the realm of primeval and a particular countryside mysticism.
Despite a lengthy bibliography, Ronald Blythe remained a perpetual enigma for many. Even in the Word from Wormingford columns, the unacknowledged observer maintains a transparent image, with no sense of history or personal biography to note. What Blythe did acknowledge or the details commented on freely throughout his life was he came from a rural stock. Generations of farm labourers; a broad term unto itself. Blythe never commented on the abject poverty of his upbringing, his mother a nurse from London’s slums and his father a farm labourer who suffered immensely during the First World War in Gallipoli and would later become a gravedigger. Blythe worked hard at losing his rough country accent by listening to radio. Blythe would later come to memorialize his fathers experience in the Great War in “Akenfield,” in the figure of Leonard Thompson. The imagery of bodies being buried into the trenches and ground spongey underfoot, came directly from Albert Blythe’s own experience. Same with the macabre hand, which the soldiers shook as they passed by. As for the maternal influence, Matilda “Tille,” Blythe imbued in her son a love of words and storytelling. As many of his generation, Ronald Blythe’s education was short lived, having concluded at 14. Despite this, Blythe never gave up on learning. Books, libraries, churches, country lanes. The entire landscape would prove to be an education. After working as a bookstore clerk, and deemed unfit for military service during the Second World War, Ronald Blythe found further occupational success working as a reference librarian Colchester. Its is from here, Blythe’s literary ambitions and life would be realised and transformed.
What Ian Collins accomplishes in “Blythe Spirit: The Remarkable Life of Ronald Blythe,” is what makes it a magnificent and spectacular biography. The question of how does one distill and define a life between two covers – especially one as rich, long and great as Ronald Blythe’s – is a herculean task. While indeed recounting Blythe’s life chronologically (cradle to grave), Ronald Blythe’s biography in Ian Collin’s hands is less an ironed-out account and more of a cultivation of a wonderful garden turned wild forest. While Roanld Blythe may be the subject of the biography and its epicentre, the cast of characters who emerge either in relation or association to Blythe is extraordinary. From the stingy great aunt who made some fortune for herself with owning sweet shop, but whose miserly attitude towards worldly pleasure forbade anyone to eat the apples from her trees, except the windfallen ones. The mentorship with James Turner, who was the inspiration of the poet figure in “Akenfield,” and facilitated the ferrying of Blythe into the bohemian realm of the Suffolk artists helmed by Sir Cedric Morris; whose tumultuous relationship with Arthur Lett-Haines proved a cautious warning.
The Nash’s will always feature prominently in any biography of Ronald Blythe. John Nash and Christine (Nash) Kühlenthal were fast enduring friends who became virtual family. Christine in particular, is the fairy godmother like figure anyone would be fortunate enough to meet (and perhaps everyone needs in their life). It was Christine who encourage Ronald Blythe to leave the library and pursue his literary ambition, which led to the adventure and time by the sea, where Blythe would work for the Aldeburgh Festival and come into the orbit of Benjamin Britten’s circle, and make the acquaintance of E.M. Forster. A particular favourite memory and scene of Christine, was the short vignette of how a group of village children playing in the grounds of Bottengoms, whereby a girl had fallen into a pond. Quick to the rescue, Christine salvaged the girl from her sodden clothes with a fairy costume retrieved from a trunk housing the costumes of a past pantomime. In the end, as Blythe took care of a failing John Nash, the now legendary artistic abode of Bottengoms would pass to Ronald Blythe, and is graced with two blue plaques signifying the ancient Tudor houses cultural significance both in visual and literary history.
Ian Collins illuminates each of these individuals like a firefly briefly illuminating in the dark. The quickest flash of bioluminescence amongst the foliage. They include but not limited to Peter Hall, George Mackay Brown, Charles Causley, James Hamilton-Paterson and many, many others. Though Patricia Highsmith does rise slightly above the others, in part due to her notoriety and venomous vitriolic legacy. The two were warm and appreciative friends during Highsmith’s time in Suffolk before she packed up and move onwards to France and would later settle down in Switzerland. It always surprised and perhaps amused Ronald Blythe to be included among the lengthy list of Highsmith’s lovers. The irony would not be lost on either one, considering both preferred their own sex. Yet, in a fling that is now something of literary legend, each one wanted to see how the other half got on with it. Needless to say, it went no farther. The two did maintain a warm and amicable friendship though, with Highsmith inviting Blythe to her Swiss fortress of solitude. Wisely, Ronald Blythe never did entreat Highsmith on her offer, preferring to maintain their friendship from a distance via correspondence. Despite, Highsmith’s own penchant for bitterness and caustic cruelty, Blythe in turn spoke warmly of Highsmith and praised her mysterious and dark elements, which were the inspiration of her novels and short stories.
Inevitably, all biographies end at the point of finality. Especially considering when the subject has indeed deceased. Here again, Ian Collins doesn’t linger to long on the details of decline, but finds praise and appreciation to a small army of ‘dear ones,’ who would come and support Ronald Blythe through his final years, ensuring he would be able to die in the place which had been his home and has been a special abode for many years, Bottengoms Farm. Collins writes of Blythe’s final trek up the aforementioned green tunnel with poignancy, showcasing how beloved Blythe was throughout the community:
“When undertakers arrived for Ronnie’s last journey up the track, dear ones lined the path in a ragged guard of honour – a teenager with shorts and muddied knees straight from the rugby field, his parents, the family of friends. A robin sang. There was a smell of leaf mould nurturing the next green growth.”
While Richard Mabey provided true words regarding the enduring legacy that Ronald Blythe had left behind, having been neglected to long:
“’I hope that our dear dear friend – and hero – may at last be recognized as one of the great prose writers of the past century.’”
Ian Collins completes his biography of Ronald Blythe with the most beautiful image of the world in which Ronald Blythe loved, cherished and ultimately left behind, as we all do:
“For all the natural losses, otters are back in the Stour and buzzards returned to nest in a willow below the garden from 2007. In his final summer, Ronnie heard chiffchaffs and cuckoo as he sunbathed amid dragonflies. He could no longer reach nightingales on Tiger Hill but was lulled to sleep as always by hooting tawny owls and snuffling badgers.”
“Blythe Spirit: The Remarkable Life of Ronald Blythe,” is a truly beautiful biography. Roland Blythe is a marvelous subject, whose love of cultivation was not just limited to that of horticultural and gardening or literary pursuits. “Blythe Spirit,” showcases a man and a writer who cultivated a variety of lives, relationships and friendships. It is difficult to imagine a writer who celebrated the countryside with such grounded understanding as Ronald Blythe, who approached the rural world through a sense of generational inheritance and understanding about being born to work the land, plow the fields, shepherd the flock. In this there was some folkloric wisdom to his perspective, one that could not be achieved or emulated in any academic discipline, be it botany, geography, ecology or biology. A truly remarkable writer, who was criminally neglected, should now be renewed, studied and appreciated. As it is doubtful that there will ever be a writer quite like Ronald Blythe again, who was able straddle two worlds. The one slipping into obsoletion and the other carelessly marching forward. In the case of Ian Collins, I can’t recall ever reading a biography with such warmth and love for its subject, Ronald Blythe (or Ronnie) could not have chosen a more wonderful biographer to record, recount and celebrate his life and story.
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
M. Mary
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