It was lighter than usual for that time of the year. Or do I mean darker? The observation was my wife’s, not mine, and I am sadly unaccustomed to listening closely to her passing comments on seasonal ephemera. Thus spake the postman: I am a man of letters and care not for natural wonders. I recall that Oscar Wilde said something similar, after Huysmanns perhaps, who was himself inspired, most probably, by a similarly witty Parisian postman. Originality is overrated, or has to be, I think, to save us from metaphorically chopping ourselves into little pieces. Johannes Speyer didn’t like to be unoriginal - which is why he wrote very little, and nearly died of worry.
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    Back to nature, as they say. Wondrous or not, there I was, in the great outdoors, lapping up nature like a thirsty kitten. I was in a thoughtful mood and it was, I think, lighter than usual for that time of year. My mood, on the other hand, was on the dark side. The phrase ‘domestic situation’ comes to mind. Those readers fortunate enough to have shared correspondence with me at any time in my career may know that I have developed the habit, God knows why (and I wish he’d tell me) of signing off with a variation on the phrase ‘may the treacle of culture drip upon your face’. My wife, as it happens, was never aware of this tradition (again: ask the Almighty) and was somewhat surprised to come across it in what were, all things considered, unfortunate circumstances. Once or twice, in the hurry in which I habitually am, it seems that I have mistyped this maxim of mine, missing out a word or two. That this should happen in an e-mail to a good-looking female academic (mentioning no double-barrelled names) and that the words I neglected to copy out were ‘of culture’ was, needless to say, an ill-fated mistake. Why, quizzed the spouse, was I sending out e-mails in which I expressed the desire that treacle should drip over Mrs ----------'s face? Was I inclined to provide such a service? It would explain, she said, the absence of treacle in the house. This was, I must say, a curious accusation. I didn’t even know we had treacle in the house. We don’t, she said: that’s why I’m suspicious. At this point, of course, I said something silly like ‘I don’t even know what treacle looks like’ which was, in retrospect, a pretty pathetic lie with which to cover up a sin I hadn’t even committed. That’s how it goes, however, especially in situations in which one feels so sure that one’s innocence will be proved that one cannot be bothered to negotiate the path there with any sort of grace. Never presume you'll get off lightly, even when you should.

    Withdraw your fears: this was no real crisis. These arguments erupt every so often, but generally smooth themselves out. After a brief communion with nature (I'll come to this in a minute) I saw where I had gone wrong and, after a rather longer communion with a bathtub and its contents, so did Mrs Riecke. The missing treacle - the unwitting bystander of this strange incident - was found to be hiding behind a surprisingly large pot of marmalade and, for my part, I was able to produce enough examples of letters and e-mails in which I had used my ‘treacle conclusion’ both correctly and incorrectly; proving that it was not a private joke between me and the black-haired expert on Hungarian fiction who shall remain nameless. Needless to say, I took care that evening to make countless comparisons between this unknown lady and my wife; comparisons in which the latter was always seen to emerge the victor. ‘Your eyebrows are Bach; hers are barely Telemann’ was, I believe, the decisive comment; the one that finally tipped the balance back in my favour. My wife’s weak-spot has always been her eyebrows. Compliment them and you’re in the money. Not that I should be telling you this.

    Back to nature, back to nature. Or to be exact, praise be to nature for reminding me of the correct path to take. Sometimes a quick walk through the fields solves everything. Very often it does more than this. It solves old things and brings new things to life. The mind goes into overdrive, bubbling over like a pan of spaghetti. Water, water everywhere - and what a lot to think about! Something someone sees sends a bullet through the corridors of their brain; an investigable bullet: more of a trained missile than anything (though who has trained it I really can’t say). But there it goes nonetheless, like a child of Thespis rooting through a dressing-up box, searching for something old to be used anew; looking to unlock one of those mysterious rooms in the deep regions of the mind. The flying missile of random thought. What sends it off? What doesn’t? The trigger could, potentially, be pulled at any second. But it isn’t.

    There was much to be stimulated by. There always is, when walking about outside. There, on the branch that pokes out of that unruly hedgerow like the misplaced hair of an uncombed tramp, clings a blackbird, letting it all out. A remarkable soloist - but he doesn’t move my mind to new places. I don’t suppose this bothers him: he isn’t singing for me, after all, but for his faded mate, or else a rival male. Maybe he sings for himself. In either case, I walk on by.

    A rabbit, it transpires, is grazing on the grass at the side of the path. He (or she, indeed) takes no notice of my approach. Do I not pose a threat? Obviously I do, but it turns out that this rabbit, as sadly thickheaded as most of its species, has to wait until I am close enough to step on it before choosing to leap off at breakneck speed. It rather overdoes the panic, I think, as if it enjoys the emotion. It reminds me of...

    Of course. Johannes Speyer in his study on a spring morning in 1979. That conversation we had about critics. How could I ever have forgotten that? For the fact is, I hadn’t thought of it for twenty years or so. And all it took to bring it back was a rabbit in a panic. And when I say bring it back, I really do mean bring it back. I could almost count the hairs on Speyer’s chin (he was a lazy shaver). The smell of his study at that time of the year was distinctive; as if all those books were responding to the turn in the season: spring-cleaning themselves. I also remembered that this was, so to speak, a difficult time for Speyer. He never took anything easily, that much could be said, but he was definitely feeling under more pressure than usual. His publishers were on his back regarding his book on Tolstoy of which, after nine years, he had yet to write a word (and never did). On top of this, Riding on the Crest of Culture - possibly his best book - had just been given a critical mauling by a square-faced professor from Potsdam. Things were tough - and he was taking 'bad-mood walks' every hour or so in a desperate attempt to shake off his anxieties.

    Were the walks working? I’m not so sure they were. Certainly, he didn’t seem much happier on his return from them. He kicked off his boots with some passion - and sighed with some abandon. On the other hand, these strolls were pushing him to approach his difficulties in different ways. They were clearly providing a new structure on which to throw the old troubles: and to see them anew.


    Everybody knows about Speyer’s penchant for surfing metaphors. Important though it was, I often regret that this aspect of his work has attracted so much attention. I so often hear people talk of Speyer as the ‘surfing metaphor man’, which seems unfair, for there was so much more to him than this. I probably don’t need to say that this idiotic simplification has affected my career as much as Speyer’s. Though I am, as they say, partial to an obscure metaphor or two, I doubt I would have got a reputation for metaphor over-indulgence were it not common knowledge that I was taught by Speyer.

    Enough of this. I bring it up only because the anecdote I am about to tell proves that Speyer was capable of devising metaphors that had no relationship whatsoever to water-based sports. Though I fear that my example may establish the fact that his non-surfing metaphors were his least successful as well as his rarest, I don’t think it unfair to say that they represent a point from which he might have gone on to produce exhilarating theories, had he only confidence in his convictions. (It is one of my greatest regrets that I wasn’t able to give him that confidence. It would have been more useful than that bottle of elderberry wine which he never opened - and which was later left to me in his will.)

    It was a spring evening, I believe, when he took the walk. I suppose that spring evenings do tend to precede spring mornings (punctuated, albeit by spring nights). Only when I write those words they strike me as being odd. We talk of spring mornings, summer afternoons and evenings, winter nights and autumn days. But there is something about the idea of a spring evening - something which doesn’t sound right. Stop me if I'm wrong. Perhaps it's the juxtaposition of a word that we associate with growth - with fresh starts - and one which, by its very nature, is concerned with the end of things. Yes? No?  throw my hands up in defeat. All I know that Speyer took his walk on a spring evening and that I met him the following morning (a spring morning) whereupon he told me of several things that had occurred during his walk.

    The first thing, you may not be surprised to know, was very similar to that which occurred during my walk. Speyer had come across one or two of those panicked rabbits, quietly munching grass, or dandelions, or whatever it is they munch, up until the point at which he stepped (in their view) perilously close, resulting in an extremely hasty escape. Seeing this reminded Speyer of a type of critic: a type who, in his words ‘seem friendly enough, and are quite happy to coexist amongst dangerous ideas, but only until they come too close. When that happens, off they scamper, quick as a Spanish wind’. Putting aside this talk of hasty Spanish winds (I am, alas, no expert on Spanish weather) the comparison seemed to me an astute one. We had both met critics of this sort; the kind that blind one with their apparent ‘cuteness’; who seem comfortable in almost situation, but fly off as soon as the situation gets slightly dangerous.

    Speyer’s walk continued. He had seen rabbits - enough to send his mind off in an unforeseen direction. But there was more to come. Ten minutes later he spied another animal ahead of them on the road. It was a fox.

    Now, in these circumstances, neither Speyer nor the fox had much to fear. They were both minding their own business and did not represent much of a threat to each other. The fox, however, had it in his (or her) head that, when push came to shove, he (or she) was probably the 'lesser party' - and should probably give way, in case of any troub;e. Foxes, nevertheless, can be a proud sort and on the whole they don’t like to be thought of as quitters. Thus, though some will humbly slink away, the majority of them will trot off, turning around shortly after starting their escape and peering over their shoulder with an expression that seems to say: ‘No, I’m not running away from you - I just happened to be going in this direction’. This is exactly how Speyer’s fox behaved. He or she gave way, but did so unwillingly, attempting to mask their defeat by pretending that they had other concerns. This reminded Speyer, again, of a type of critic; the type that remain on the sidelines; that are never seen to be making a hasty escape, but who are, nevertheless, always walking away from eminent danger. One of these critics had been hounding him at this very time; breaking like a fox into his dustbin at night, only to amble off in the first light of the morning, a calm insolence written all over its vulpine face.

    Speyer strolled forward into the falling dusk. Would he be confronted with another animal before he came to the end of his walk? He certainly would. He was almost home when it happened - and, as it turned out, he knew the creature. It was the beagle belonging to Professor Schinz, the talented physicist who lived a lane or two away. I forget the beagle’s name, but I knew the dog well. I recall kicking it down some stairs once, quite (or at least almost) by mistake - for it was one of those dogs with a fantastic habit of getting in the way. Friendliness was, no doubt, its main motive - but it had a funny way of showing it. It was as if the animal wanted more than anything to trip people up, frequently getting tangled amongst their legs, or appearing in front of or just behind them at unexpected moments. Need I say that this aggravated me no end? I do not like being taken by surprise, especially by beagles. And I think I could say that the same went for Speyer - a naturally sensitive man, with no real fondness for animals. Nevertheless, in these circumstances, there was no animal that Speyer would have liked to have seen more than Schinz’s beagle. For here was a third type of critic. After the panicked rabbit and the impudent fox came the manic beagle.

    The other two animals reminded him of critics who had, to some extent, failed. Could Schinz’s beagle turn the tables and represent a model of the perfect critic? He suggested that it could -  though it can't say it was a model he ever followed himself. Having said that, I fancy that this is, at times, what he might have liked to be. An annoying little dog, getting in everyone’s way; keeping everyone on their toes: tripping up the great and good. That, surely, was the good critic’s job? But Speyer was no manic beagle. If he was any animal, it was the fourth one: the animal that Speyer never saw. What was it? Who knows - it wasn’t seen, and that’s the point. Maybe it was a mouse, or something small like that. Perhaps it was a large bird, drifting on a breeze above his head. No, Speyer was no drifter. He knew what he wanted - and went about his task industriously. But he did his work mostly in the dark. He was, if anything, a nocturnal animal: the salient owl, with the large piercing eyes. Not a social creature, but effective in its way. Too easily ignored? Dangerous only to mice? Guilty of keeping whatever wisdom it has to itself? Maybe.

    Speyer had his faults as a critic and if this anecdote shows anything, it shows that he was aware of them. He was a self-conscious critic: one who thought deeply about his role and who kept a steady eye on the attitude of others. Rather than ask ‘should he have been a manic beagle?’ perhaps the real question should be ‘could he have been a manic beagle?’ This sort of criticism was not Speyer’s business. It wasn’t in his personality. And even it was, I wonder whether he would done well to pursue it. The manic beagle reminds me a little of the journalist; overkeen to get in the way, to obscure the path of the artist with a series of increasingly pointless questions. Disparagement for the sake of disparagement. Mixing in with anyone and everyone on the grounds of enthusiasm or loyalty; but doing it really for the sake of egoism - to ensure that one is always the centre of attention.

    If Speyer didn’t see the flaws in the manic beagle role we can only blame it on his mood at the time. At this stage in his career, many people were picking holes in the salient and slightly aloof owl role which he had been playing, so it is hardly surprising that he was looking for different models. What is surprising, however, is that he find these models in the natural world; a world which had, up to then, provided him with few metaphors. Was it the start of something? Not exactly. As far as I know, he never mentioned the manic beagle again, nor the insolent fox, nor the panicked rabbit. The comparisons he was making were, so to speak, a work in progress. The fact that he abandoned them soon after suggests that, as I do now, he saw the flaws - which is not to say that the comparisons are worthless, but that they needed the kind of work he wasn’t able to give them. Inspiration is a runaway train - and Speyer’s was usually, strangely, bound for the coast, to the home of the obscure surfing metaphor. But who’s to say that someone else’s carriage may not alight one day alongside Speyer’s concept - and find it in a destination, where it was once thought to be no more than a casual stopping-off point?

       May the manic beagle of culture haunt your thoughts.