D onald Trump's inauguration--which too many people are seeing as 'really Quincy Adams' when it's all Jackson, Harding, Johnson, and Wilkie--came on St Agnes' Eve. She being a virginal martyr, and it being cold here in Britain, I thought that a spot of Keats was in order. (By the time anyone has finished reading it, everything might be all over anyway). It is, given the womens' protests, also worth noting that St Agnes' Eve was traditionally the time when women who dreamed of a life with people who were worth it would do things that were unusual to them to make it happen. Seems a better way of interpreting a nationwide 'Pussy March' packed with people who aren't the usual suspects than trying to make it into a series of marches on Versailles.... St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,...
This is a collection of personal and largely unedited observations covering the years from 2006 to now; I assert my copyright but am fine with links and footnotes. Some posts are obviously much more researched than others, and any errors are wholly mine except where I have innocently disseminated or linked to other bloggers or commentators.