Powys really does confound the literary critics. Which box do you place him in? Memorably described as a “leviathan who laughs at the critics modest rod and line”, Powys hits you with his ability to evoke the coarse and the sublime, the mystical and the mundane. He can change the way you look at an ancient stone or a sweeping landscape, a blade of grass or a blackbird. He can stop you in your tracks. I love the guy. He can be as close to bad and good and over the top as every human being. He writhes about in prose that can seem clotted and then transparent. He is often intensely ‘wonder-full’. He has a grasp of human frailties that makes Tolstoy’s preachings seem superficial.
He erupted into my life with a huge impact; I was in a London bookshop, in 1964, and there was a new Penguin Modern Classic, Wolf Solent, with a splendid cover painting by Paul Nash. I began reading it in the shop and I have never been so instantly grabbed. Powys has never left me since that man on the Waterloo steps, and the solo journey he makes in the railway carriage to Dorset. A fly walks across a railway picture; this evokes another layer of memory. Yes, compartments on trains had pictures to look at, under glass. They might be photographs or paintings. And that Wolf Solent journey took me to Glastonbury Romance, Maiden Castle, Porius, Rodmoor, Weymouth Sands, Wood And Stone and Owen Glendower. He is truly enigmatic, almost other worldly rather than un-worldly. From a grain of sand to the Milky Way, the reader can look over this man’s shoulder and sense what he is writing and where his imagination will take us. Porius is essential; it is a fairytale with a profound message for anyone who catches on. Is it his masterpiece? I don’t care. But it is the best illustration of that historical essence; the idea that before we existed was a stream of consciousness that occupied the same forest that we now walk through. And it’s every bit as muddled as it ever was.
While acknowledging he is a such a loveable obsessive nutcase, I am entirely willing to take him on completely; although I’m talking about his books, rather than the ‘first cause’ spiritual stuff. A Glastonbury Romance is a classic example of the ‘flawed masterpiece’. It is strung out to the point, almost, of irritation; it has elements of mumbo-jumbo in the Johnny Geard character, but that same Johnny is wonderfully convincing and believable. Certainly it drags this reader on because it is peppered with wild and wonderful passages of inspiration and imagination, of the celebration of language. Love him or hate him, all his novels contain rich, complex characters and glorious writing. And I certainly do love him, with his whole heart, his acceptance of human life in the spirit of ‘absolutely undogmatic ignorance’. That’s his philosophy in brief form. Wolf Solent might well be my favourite single entertainment of Powys, but Glastonbury Romance is damn close to being my number one as well. It is just a bit too huge and untidy a sprawl compared to Wolf.
Physicist Alan Lightman wrote: “From all the physical and sociological evidence, the world appears to run not on absolutes but on relatives, context, change, impermanence, and multiplicity. Nothing is fixed. All is in flux.” I go along with that; ‘nature’ is beyond all understanding. The closer we get to an absolute final clear answer we are confronted with a further complication. Organised religion appeals to some people because it offers a graspable answer to the mystery of life. But to me that is to cauterise further attempts to find that elusive ‘First Cause’ as John Cowper Powys puts it.