Musicians From England

"In Bengal, To move at all Is seldom if ever done."

"In Hong Kong They strike a gong And fire off a noonday gun To reprimand Each inmate Who's in late."

"In a jungle town Where the sun beats down To the rage of man and beast, The English garb Of the English sahib Merely gets a bit more creased. In Bangkok At twelve'o'clock They foam at the mouth and run, But mad dogs and Englishmen Go out in the midday sun."

"In Rangoon The heat of noon Is just what the natives shun, They put their Scotch Or Rye down And lie down."

"It seems such a shame When the English claim The Earth, That they give rise To such hilarity And mirth."

"It's such a surprise For Eastern eyes To see, That though the English are effete, They're quite impervious to heat."

"Mad Dogs & Englishmen Go out in the midday sun. The Japanese don't care to, The Chinese wouldn't dare to, The Hindus and Argentines Sleep firmly from twelve to one, But Englishmen Detest a Siesta."

"The natives grieve When the white men leave Their huts. Because they're obviously, Definitely Nuts."

"Amanda: Extraordinary how potent cheap music is."

"In tropical climes There are certain times Of day When all the citizens retire To take their clothes off and perspire. It's one of those rules That the greatest fools Obey, Because the sun is far too sultry And one must avoid its ultry- Vi'let ray."

"Now I'm off to Sibyl to meet Noel Coward, with whom I am slightly in love."

"Did I tell you about Noel Coward? He is in search of culture, and thinks Bloomsbury a kind of place of pilgrimage. Will you come and meet him? He is a miracle, a prodigy. He can sing, dance, write plays, act, compose, and I daresay paint.—He rescued his whole family who kept boarding houses in Surbiton, and they are now affluent, but on the verge of bankruptcy, because he spends so much on cocktails. If he could only become like Bloomsbury he thinks he might be saved."

"Noel Coward, whose brain is so delicate that it is intoxicated by the slightest waves in the ether, has, in desperation, taken a header in the wrong direction. He ought to be a white-hot pacifist. But somebody waved a Union Jack in front of him, and he tripped up, and he wrote Cavalcade. That play is about the finest essay in betrayal since Judas Iscariot jingled his thirty pieces of silver in the moonlight a number of years ago. And the tragedy of it is heightened by the fact that it is Noel who has been betrayed, and not his public. His public, which is deservedly vast, adored the flags and the streamers, the blood red, ice-white and royal blue which, in varying patterns, he threw across the stage of Drury Lane. And he, I am quite sure, adored the thirty thousand pieces of silver which, as a result of this play, he was able to jingle in his pocket. But the play was a tragedy, none the less. And the tragedy was not on the stage. It was in the Royal Box. It was focused in the thin, nervous face of the young man who had created this glittering tissue of dramatic lies, as he turned to his adoring audience, and said, "It's pretty exciting to be English nowadays.""

"My big break came the next year with Bitter Sweet, starring . I had a dress with a plunging neckline. Noël Coward said he could see the and I felt devastated. If you're blind, you'll miss me in that one."

"I asked Coward about a famous anecdote about him. He was alleged to have been sitting under cover from the heavy rain next to his close friend Princess Marina, Duchess of Kent, prior to going to Westminster Abbey for the Coronation service. Opposite them was another queen who had made her way into the affections of the British public, the vast Salote, Queen of Tonga. "Noël, who is that little man sheltering under Queen Salote's umbrella?" asked his companion. Coward peered through the rain. "Oh, her lunch, my dear." He laughed. "That was said by somebody at White's, and immediately attributed to me. That was very flattering of course, except I had intended to visit Tonga the following winter, and after that of course it was quite impossible.""

"Coward's influence spread even to the outposts of Rickmansworth and Poona. Hearty naval commanders or jolly colonels acquired the "camp" manners of calling everything from Joan of Arc to Merlin "lots of fun," and the adjective "terribly" peppered every sentence. All sorts of men suddenly wanted to look like Noel Coward—sleek and satiny, clipped and well groomed, with a cigarette, a telephone, or a cocktail at hand."

"Christopher Marlowe or Francis Bacon The author of Lear remains unshaken Willie Herbert or Mary Fitton What does it matter? The Sonnets were written."

"Elyot: Certain women should be struck regularly, like gongs."

"Elyot: I met her on a house party in Norfolk. Amanda: Very flat, Norfolk. Elyot: There's no need to be unpleasant. Amanda: That was no reflection on her, unless of course she made it flatter."

"Amanda: Whose yacht is that? Elyot: The Duke of Westminster's I expect. It always is. Amanda: I wish I were on it. Elyot: I wish you were too. Amanda: There's no need to be nasty. Elyot: Yes, there is every need. I've never in my life felt a greater urge to be nasty."

"I'll see you again, Whenever spring breaks through again."

"Having to read a footnote resembles having to go downstairs to answer the door while in the midst of making love."

"Your motivation is your pay packet on Friday. Now get on with it."

"If by any chance a playwright wishes to express a political opinion or a moral opinion or a philosophy, he must be a good enough craftsman to do it with so much spice of entertainment in it that the public get the message without being aware of it."

"Proceeding on the assumption that the reader of this preface is interested in the development of my musical talent, I will try to explain, as concisely as I can, how, in this respect, my personal wheels go round. To begin with, I have only had two music lessons in my life. These were the first steps of what was to have been a full course at the Guildhall School of Music, and they faltered and stopped when I was told by my instructor that I could not use consecutive fifths. He went on to explain that a gentleman called Ebenezer Prout had announced many years ago that consecutive fifths were wrong and must in no circumstances be employed. At that time Ebenezer Prout was merely a name to me (as a matter of fact he still is, and a very funny one at that) and I was unimpressed by his Victorian dicta. I argued back that Debussy and Ravel had used consecutive fifths like mad. My instructor waved aside this triviality with a pudgy hand, and I left his presence forever with the parting shot that what was good enough for Debussy and Ravel was good enough for me. This outburst of rugged individualism deprived me of much valuable knowledge, and I have never deeply regretted it for a moment."

"He loved me true did Harry-boy and I loved him true, and if the happiness we gave each other was wicked and wrong in the eyes of the Law and the Church and God Almighty, then the Law and the Church and God Almighty can go dig a hole and fall down it."

"The Battle of Britain was twenty-three years ago and the world has forgotten it. Those young men, so many of whom I knew, flew up into the air and died for us and all we believed in... What did they die for? I suppose for themselves and what they believed was England. It was England then – for a few brave months... The peace we are enduring is not worth their deaths. England has become a third-rate power, economically and morally. We are vulgarised by American values. America, which didn't even know war on its own ground, is now dictating our policies and patronising our values. I came away from that gentle, touching, tatty little party with a heavy and sad heart. The England those boys died for has disappeared. Our history, except for stupid, squalid social scandals, is over... We are now beset by the 'clever ones', all the cheap frightened people who can see nothing but defeat and who have no pride, no knowledge of the past, no reverence for our lovely heritage... I despise the young, who see no quality in our great past and who spit, with phoney, left-wing disdain, on all that we, as a race, have contributed to the living world... I say a grateful goodbye to those foolish, gallant young men who made it possible for me to be alive today to write these sentimental words."

"Television is for appearing on, not looking at."

"I love criticism as long as it is unqualified praise."

"Hollywood is a place where some people lie on the beach and look up at the stars, whereas other people lie on the stars and look down at the beach."

"Charles: Anything interesting in The Times? Ruth: Don't be silly, Charles."

"Our families have traditions We've heard of a thousand times Our ancestors were unequivocally right. They frequently went on missions To rather peculiar climes To lead the wretched heathen to the light. Though some of them got beaten up and some of them stampeded And quite a lot were eaten up - a few of them succeeded. On one of these expeditions An uncle we thought a bore Turned out to be more spirited than ever he'd been before.Poor Uncle Harry Wanted to be a missionary So he took a ship and sailed away. This visionary Hotly pursued by dear Aunt Mary Found a South Sea isle on which to stay. The natives greeted them kindly, And invited them to dine On yams and clams and human hams and vintage coconut wine The taste of which was filthy But the after-effects divine."

"The stately homes of England we proudly represent, We only keep them up for Americans to rent. Tho' the pipes that supply the bathroom burst And the lavat'ry makes you fear the worst It was used by Charles the First (quite informally), And later by George the Fourth on a journey north, The state apartments keep their historical reknown, It's wiser not to sleep there in case they tumble down; But still if they ever catch on fire Which with any luck they might, We'll fight for the stately homes of England."

"Don't put your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Worthington Don't put your daughter on the stage The profession is overcrowded And the struggle's pretty tough And admitting the fact she's burning to act That isn't quite enough She's a big girl and though her teeth are fairly good She's not the type I ever would be eager to engage I repeat, Mrs. Worthington, sweet Mrs. Worthington Don't put your daughter on the stage."

"[On the phone] My dear Jim's dead...No dear, he jumped off Waterloo Bridge - Yes, the one next to Charing Cross - No, no, no that's Blackfriars."

"It was a DJ style which helped to create the lifestyle which came to be known as hip hop. At the beginning of the disco era in the first half of the 1970s, regular disco jocks in clubs were most concerned with the blend between one record and the next - matching tempos to make a smooth transition which, at its best, could continually alter the mood on the dancefloor without breaking the flow."

"An author is known by the worlds he creates. The measure of his greatness is the degree of clarity and the consistency with which he builds his spirit’s habitation, the depth and height it offers the reader who enters it. Eleanor Farjeon’s world is construed of fantasy, romance, and an abounding yea-saying joy in the experience of life. It is the stuff that dreams are made of, and as dangerous as dynamite except for those who have genius in their blood, a compassionate heart, a sense of wonder at the multitudinous miracles to be met in one day’s living in this world, and the blessed proportion of wit, humor and nonsense. All these she has."

"No doubt she wrote "Morning Has Broken" for children, since they were so surely her preferred audience, but it is as engaging a piece of theology as one is likely to find. … the quality of the day has a head start for me if the worship includes Farjeon's poem/hymn. Farjeon subtitled her poem "For the First Day of Spring." I suspect that the inspiration came to her on such a day, and I agree that it is a perfect way to enter that lovely season. But the wonder of the poem, of course, is that on such a day the poet found herself transported to the first days of creation. … So it is that I recommend Farjeon's poem not only for the first day of spring, but as the right way to begin every day. What better than to look out on a new day — any new day — as an unspoiled gift from the hand of God, "fresh from the Word"? … One wonders if Farjeon expected children to get it? Personally, I am confident she did. She wasn’t one to talk down to her readers, nor was she one to underestimate their capacities. I suspect she knew that what children lack in intellectual training they make up for in innate perceptiveness — and perhaps especially in their refusing to let literalism get in the way of reality. We adults lose our appetite for Eden. After so many battles with the real world, as we experience it, we find it hard to imagine that things can be perfect. So it is that a child can sing "Sweet the rain's new fall, / Sunlit from heaven," while adults calculate what the rain will do for market futures or for the prospects of this afternoon's ball game. I remember a summer morning nearly half a century ago. As I returned from a walk, I picked up an earthworm from the sidewalk and took it to my then four-year old daughter, who couldn't have a dog because the parsonage was next door to the church. "I've got a pet, I've got a pet!" she squealed. I wouldn't trade ten seconds of childish ecstasy for a full day of adult disillusionment. Eleanor Farjeon was quite right to tell children that the first day of spring is a return to Eden and this blackbird that sings is "like the first bird." And she was more than right in thinking that children would get it."

"Great Britain has blessed the world of children with a number of poets and storytellers. … But perhaps no one was more loved by children in the British Isles or published more books than Eleanor Farjeon. She once said that she was "singing songs before she could write, and even before she could speak, and as soon as she could guide a pencil she began to write them down." When she died in 1965 at the age of eighty-four, she had published more than eighty books of stories and poems for children."

"Although her voice was faint she could still joke, for one day taking my hand she felt a large ring, which she raised close to her face for inspection. With a faint smile she whispered, "Ah, like Edith Sitwell I see." She was given the last rites by her priest and died on June 5th. Eleanor was buried in the romantic little churchyard which spans the side of Hampstead Hill between the Protestant church in Church Row and the Catholic church in Holly Walk. Her grave is generally smothered by a big rambler rose and is hard to discover. She was never keen on personal publicity."

"It’s no use crying over spilt evils. It’s better to mop them up laughing."

"I was touched and surprised when, one day in her eighties, she said a little sadly, yet with the confidence of one who can face her own limitations, "I have always tried to use what little talent I had to the full". This remark had to do with the statement in the preface to Silver-Sand and Snow, … that – "In my youth I dreamed of being a 'real' poet, but half way through my life that dream died, and whatever figments of it remained went into writing songs and verses for children.""

"I was a little overworked. I had been reading a great number of manuscripts in the preceding weeks, and the mere sight of typescript was a burden to me. But before I had read five pages of Martin Pippin, I had forgotten that it was a manuscript submitted for my judgment. I had forgotten who I was and where I lived. I was transported into a world of sunlight, of gay inconsequence, of emotional surprise, a world of poetry, delight, and humor. And I lived and took my joy in that rare world, until all too soon my reading was done. My most earnest wish is that there may be many minds and imaginations among the American people who will be able to share that pleasure with me. For every one who finds delight in this book I can claim as a kindred spirit."

"He could not be captured, He could not be bought, His running was rhythm, His standing was thought; With one eye on sorrow And one eye on mirth, He galloped in heaven And gambolled on earth. And only the poet With wings to his brain Can mount him and ride him Without any rein, The stallion of heaven, The steed of the skies, The horse of the singer Who sings as he flies."

"His tail was a fountain. His nostrils were caves. His mane and his forelock Were musical waves. He neighed like a trumpet. He cooed like a dove. He was stronger than terror And swifter than love."

"From the blood of Medusa Pegasus sprang. His hoof of heaven Like melody rang."

"Praise with elation, Praise every morning, God's re-creation Of the new day!"

"Morning has broken, Like the first morning, Blackbird has spoken Like the first bird. Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning! Praise for them springing Fresh from the Word!"

"The world never knows, and cannot for the life of it imagine, what this man sees in that maid and that maid in this man. The world cannot think why they fell in love with each other. But they have their reason, their beautiful secret, that never gets told to more than one person; and what they see in each other is what they show to each other; and it is the truth. Only they kept it hidden in their hearts until the time came. And though you and I may never know why this lane is called Shelley's, to us both it will always be the greenest lane in Sussex, because it leads to the special secret I spoke of."

"Women are so strangely constructed that they have in them darkness as well as light, though it be but a little curtain hung across the sun. And love is the hand that takes the curtain down, a stronger hand than fear, which hung it up. For all the ill that is in us comes from fear, and all the good from love."