Buried at Sea by Iain Sinclair
Blake, summoning Milton to Felpham’s Vale, envisioned ‘Realms! Of terror &- mild moony lustre in soft sexual delusions’. Starlight on that ancient ditch, the English Channel. A new place humours a shifty glaze. Eyes bruised by life in the city watch the waves. News from elsewhere is too loud, in the drag of shingle, the wind. Learning to let go, let rip. Walking out. Re-rernernbering: Walter Sicken in Dieppe, Patrick Hamilton in Hastings. A1eister Crowley. Srarn Stoker waving his stick at the sea. The Conrad gang, early, modernist solitaries, keeping their heads down. Things that don’t happen here are here all the same. Slowly urgent. ‘It’s a lot of things,’ she said, ‘but it isn’t poetry.’
