[John Whitworth]

Another competition in bloody prose. What with that one in the Oldie, I shall be reduced to writing great poetry instead of funny verses. What a fate. The new Ted Hughes (sigh).

No. 2786: voyagers

It’s that time of year when the mind turns to holiday-planning. You are invited to submit a feature for a travel supplement as it might have been written by a well-known novelist, living or dead (150 words maximum and please specify). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 20 February.

[Brian Allgar]

Not only that, John, but travel guide in the Spectator, tourist guide in the NS ... If it continues like this, we can send the same entries to both of them.

[Lance Levens]

(James Joyce)

Here's a guide to Lost-it-all Land, to Never Recover the Very Land. There's Spaghettisburg. There are the bones of Spaghettisburg that began to begin to be gone. There are the ghosts of Spaghettisburg, unruly ghoulies that got up and wander wounded and bloom the needless cries of why and whither and when. Southerly soughing takes us to Chicamauga where the maggots mime by moonlight. Bring your coffee and sandwiches and sit for the sighing of wind down the mountain. And who could forget the licking at Vicksburg? See the general's sword. See the ego's gilded on the general's sword. See where Lee granted victory to the licked but labored on into time past where he strides the mountains of the miserified. Sic semper the simperer sighed, up there where the losers ride.

[basil ransome-davies]

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

Another competition in bloody prose. What with that one in the Oldie, I shall be reduced to writing great poetry instead of funny verses. What a fate. The new Ted Hughes (sigh).

John, you've taken the first step. You've become a renowned poet. Now's the time to move up a gear & tackle the difficult stuff, prose.

[John Whitworth]

No. It'stoo hard. I once wrote a novel. Garbage.

[Peter Goulding]

I once started to write a novel. The first lines went something like, "George had always thought that writing a novel was a piece of cake; once the first line was settled upon, the rest would flow easily."

That was as far as I got.

[Brian Allgar]

When I was young, I had a certain gift for writing sentences. I remember the day when, with great pride, I finished an entire paragraph.

[Lance Levens]

Buck up, lads, and stop all your whining. Write it in numbers then muck it up a bit.

[John Whitworth]

You got it, Lance

Oxford by James Joyce

Golden buildings caught by sunshine choral music sung in chapels autumn sunshine softly falling punting down the ancient river softly falling winter evenings college windows hurrying scholars gin and tonic at the boathouse lengthening shadows down the gardens ancient buildings softly falling golden scholars autumn shadows sunshine punting down the chapels college choral gin and boathouse golden apples calling meadows haunting moonshine lengthening fellows random knowledge hung in gardens summer madhouse glinting bindings fluttering pedals whispering swallows river shallows gin and gardens hunters ardent weeping fellows drifting whispers dreaming murder winter windows shadow music sung in softly building gardens tonic choral lengthening scholars wailing willows solemn chapels winding softly ailing scholars ancient molars river music classic columns dreaming madhouse pattering shadows boathouse tonic golden money stolen kisses crumpled pillows broken bindings tangled naked sunshine children ancient passions drowning river falling cardhouse chanting scholars hunting moonman random staircase choral starshine deftly building singing candles roaring dimly scudding rainclouds hurrying figures golden children weeping mirrors thisyear nextyear sometime notime nevernever nevernever

.

[basil ransome-davies]

Joyce with some help from Longfellow?