The Wind in the Willows right? Kenneth Grahame, 1908.
We all know the children’s story inside-out. Mole and Ratty and gruff Badger and conceited Mr Toad with his motorcars and all their adventures.
I picked up the book as an adult - I can’t remember why - and it wasn’t what I expected.
This week I have been reading it again and it is again astonishing.
I mean… let me share some of the prose with you.
This is when Mole encounters the river for the first time.
Green turf sloped down to either edge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet water, while ahead of them the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a weir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill-wheel, that held up in its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled the air with a soothing murmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little clear voices speaking up cheerfully out of it at intervals. It was so very beautiful that the Mole could only hold up both forepaws and gasp, “O my! O my! O my!”
There’s a chapter where they’re looking back on the summer just gone, and a description of the plant-life soars:
The pageant of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in scene-pictures that succeeded each other in stately procession. Purple loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant tangled locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset cloud, was not slow to follow. Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if string-music had announced it in stately chords that strayed into a gavotte, that June at last was here. One member of the company was still awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for whom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the sleeping summer back to life and love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair and odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the group, then the play was ready to begin.
They go out in the boat at night looking for a lost young otter. (A whole other story but they encounter the divine spirit Pan who intercedes with a miracle and then wipes their memories lest they suffer the rest of their lives in the shadow of that awe.)
A description of moonlight:
The line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one particular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing phosphorescence that grew and grew. At last, over the rim of the waiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of the horizon and rode off, free of moorings; and once more they began to see surfaces-meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference that was tremendous. Their old haunts greeted them again in other raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they would be recognised again under it.
It’s just… it’s…
O my! O my! O my!
I asked ChatGPT to calculate some readability stats for me: the average sentence length is 18.5 words.
Sentence length in literature has been falling over the years (LanguageLog).
But it’s not the lengthy sentences that makes this prose work for me. It’s the rhythm.
And I don’t really get that from reading it dead on the page. It’s because I’ve been reading The Wind in the Willows out loud.
Some years back I read Ursula Le Guin’s book about writing, Steering the Craft.
The first chapter is all about the sound of your words:
"The basic elements of language are physical: the noise words make and the rhythm of their relationships."
She recommends reading out loud.
So I started reading out loud.
I would take a page of prose from a novel that I really loved, and I would read it out loud, and out loud again, and again, and again, and again, until I could make it sound as wonderful as I felt it was when I was reading in my head.
It’s so hard to do. And you learn so much about words and meaning with this practice.
So I doubt you’re reading this post out loud.
But that passage about moonlight above…
For me, it doesn’t work in my head. It’s okay. But when I read it out loud - to my kid, which is my excuse right now - to make it make sense to her ears and for the words to carry her, I have to read it in a certain way, and when I do Kenneth Grahame’s words loft me into the sky, swinging clear of the horizon and right up there, free of moorings, just like his moon.
And when I read his words about the foliage on the riverbank, out loud, I’m right there too.
Do me a favour. Read that moonlight paragraph out loud. Even if under your breath, but pause right now, take a moment and do that, read it out loud.
Then read all of The Wind in the Willows because it’s free on Project Gutenberg in Kindle format and everything, and if you have an excuse to read it to someone else then do that, it is transporting and majestic and gentle all at once, and it is a joy to have his words in your mouth and in the air and in your ears.
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