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asls.org.uk
Association for Scottish Literature
@asls.org.uk
8.4K followers 2.2K following 5.2K posts
Educational charity promoting the reading, writing, teaching & study of Scotland's literature & languages, past & present.

https://asls.org.uk
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asls.org.uk
Coming soon to a bookshop near you: a new edition of Alan Sharp’s A GREEN TREE IN GEDDE (first published in 1965, & its author likened to Joyce & Lawrence). Watch this space …
Book cover A GREEN TREE IN GEDDE Alan Sharp White lettering against a background of bright green overlapping leaves. Between the words of the title, in much smaller lettering, are the following lines: Here we sit Birds in the wilderness Down in Demerara
January 12, 2026 at 2:15 PM
asls.org.uk
“Henry Cunningham, Esq. of Boquhan, was a gentleman of Stirlingshire, who, like many exquisites of our own time, united a natural high spirit and daring character with an affectation of delicacy of address and manners amounting to foppery…”
#C17 #C18
5/5
—Walter Scott’s 1829 Introduction to ROB ROY
Henry Cunningham, Esq. of Boquhan, was a gentleman of Stirlingshire, who, like many exquisites of our own time, united a natural high spirit and daring character with an affectation of delicacy of address and manners amounting to foppery.* He chanced to be in company with Rob Roy, who, either in contempt of Boquhan's supposed effeminacy, or because he thought him a safe person to fix a quarrel on (a point which Rob's enemies alleged he was wont to consider), insulted him so grossly that a challenge passed between them. The goodwife of the clachan had hidden Cunningham's sword, and while he rummaged the house in quest of his own or some other, Rob Roy went to the Shieling Hill, the appointed place of combat, and paraded there with great majesty, waiting for his antagonist. In the meantime, Cunningham had rummaged out an old sword, and, entering the ground of contest in all haste, rushed on the outlaw with such unexpected fury that he fairly drove him off the field, nor did he show himself in the village again for some time. Mr. MacGregor Stirling has a softened account of this anecdote in his new edition of Nimmo's Stirlingshire; still he records Rob Roy's discomfiture. * footnote: His courage and affectation of foppery were united, which is less frequently the case, with a spirit of innate modesty. He is thus described in Lord Binning's satirical verses, entitled "Argyle's Levee:" "Six times had Harry bowed unseen, Before he dared advance; The Duke then, turning round well pleased, Said, 'Sure you've been in France! A more polite and jaunty man I never saw before:' Then Harry bowed, and blushed, and bowed, And strutted to the door." See a Collection of original Poems, by Scotch Gentlemen, vol. ii. p. 125. Henry Cunningham, Esq. of Boquhan, was a gentleman of Stirlingshire, who, like many exquisites of our own time, united a natural high spirit and daring character with an affectation of delicacy of address and manners amounting to foppery.* He chanced to be in company with Rob Roy, who, either in contempt of Boquhan's supposed effeminacy, or because he thought him a safe person to fix a quarrel on (a point which Rob's enemies alleged he was wont to consider), insulted him so grossly that a challenge passed between them. The goodwife of the clachan had hidden Cunningham's sword, and while he rummaged the house in quest of his own or some other, Rob Roy went to the Shieling Hill, the appointed place of combat, and paraded there with great majesty, waiting for his antagonist. In the meantime, Cunningham had rummaged out an old sword, and, entering the ground of contest in all haste, rushed on the outlaw with such unexpected fury that he fairly drove him off the field, nor did he show himself in the village again for some time. Mr. MacGregor Stirling has a softened account of this anecdote in his new edition of Nimmo's Stirlingshire; still he records Rob Roy's discomfiture. * footnote: His courage and affectation of foppery were united, which is less frequently the case, with a spirit of innate modesty. He is thus described in Lord Binning's satirical verses, entitled "Argyle's Levee:" "Six times had Harry bowed unseen, Before he dared advance; The Duke then, turning round well pleased, Said, 'Sure you've been in France! A more polite and jaunty man I never saw before:' Then Harry bowed, and blushed, and bowed, And strutted to the door." See a Collection of original Poems, by Scotch Gentlemen, vol. ii. p. 125.
January 12, 2026 at 2:15 PM
asls.org.uk
Sharp’s ROB ROY also includes John Hurt’s fantastic turn as James Graham, Marquess of Montrose, & Tim Roth as the vicious dandy Archibald Cunningham. Although Archie is fictional (& English, despite the name), he is based on a real Scot who defeated Rob Roy in a duel: Henry Cunningham of Boquhan
4/5
A still from the 1995 film ROB ROY. John Hurt, left, plays the Marquis of Montrose; Tim Roth, right, plays Archibald Cunningham. Both men are dressed in elaborate seventeenth-century costume, with tricorn hats, long, culed wigs, lace cuffs and cravats. Hurt's costume, and wig, is dark; Roth's is pale, with contrasting frogging. Both men look intently to the right.
January 12, 2026 at 2:15 PM
asls.org.uk
Dear Ann, wherever you are
Since you lately learnt to die,
You are this unsetting star
That shines unchanged in my eye…

Born in Kirkwall, Ann Scott-Moncrieff was a friend of the Orkney poet & translator Edwin Muir, who wrote this poem for her when she died.
#womenwriters #C20th
7/7
Edwin Muir FOR ANN SCOTT-MONCRIEFF (1914–1943) Dear Ann, wherever you are Since you lately learnt to die, You are this unsetting star That shines unchanged in my eye; So near, inaccessible, Absent and present so much Since out of the world you fell, Fell from hearing and touch— So near. But your mortal tongue Used for immortal use, The grace of a woman young, The air of an early muse, The wealth of the chambered brow And soaring flight of your eyes: These are no longer now. Death has a princely prize. You who were Ann much more Than others are that or this, Extravagant over the score To be what only is, Would you not still say now What you once used to say Of the great Why and How, On that or the other day? For though of your heritage The minority here began, Now you have come of age And are entirely Ann. Under the years’ assaults, In the storm of good and bad, You too had the faults That Emily Brontë had, Ills of body and soul, Of sinner and saint and all Who strive to make themselves whole, Smashed to bits by the Fall. Yet ‘the world is a pleasant place’ I can hear your voice repeat, While the sun shone in your face Last summer in Princes Street.
January 11, 2026 at 4:39 PM
asls.org.uk
‘The air of an early muse’: The Visionary Fictions of Ann Scott-Moncrieff
Linden Bicket, SCOTTISH LITERARY REVIEW 16/2, 2024

Available online via @projectmuse.bsky.social (institutional subscription required)
#womenwriters #C20th
6/7
muse.jhu.edu/pub/243/arti...
Abstract This article offers the first sustained critical consideration of four short stories by Ann Scott-Moncrieff which were published posthumously in Chapman magazine (Spring 1987). In presenting synopses and close readings of ‘The Longest Day’, ‘Strong Girl’, ‘Threesome’ and ‘Nothatus’, I make a claim for Scott-Moncrieff’s (now largely overlooked) place within the ‘Renaissance’ project of cultural renewal during the inter-war era. I contend that an active politics and religious belief are two clear strands of Scott-Moncrieff’s writing and argue that her exploration of girlhood, nationhood and sexual politics are especially fresh and welcome interventions within the literary landscape of revival. Ultimately, this article makes the case for renewed critical attention to Scott-Moncrieff’s writing for an adult market.
January 11, 2026 at 4:39 PM
asls.org.uk
AUNTIE ROBBO was, however, published in the USA. Even though (or because) it came with the warning that here was a book “without a shadow or suspicion of a moral”, it sold well & was eventually printed in the UK, first by Constable (1959) & then by Puffin (1962)
#kidlit
3/7
Book cover: Auntie Robbo, by Ann Scott-Moncrieff The cover is red with yellow lettering. The illustration shows a two-wheeled covered wagon being pulled by a horse, bouncing at speed along a rough road. At the front, an elderly lady with a tartan scarf leans out confidently to pull a small boy on board. Two children look out of the back of the wagon in excitement and alarm, as various buckets fly off behind them.
January 11, 2026 at 4:39 PM
asls.org.uk
“I mean they were mostly fighting in places that didn’t belong to them, weren’t they?”

The essential elements of English history are neatly summarised in AUNTIE ROBBO, Ann Scott-Moncrieff’s children’s novel that was rejected as being “too Scottish” by London publishers in 1941…
#kidlit
2/7
Merlissa Benck’s expression had become hard and eager; she was like a hound picking up an interesting scent; she panted for breath on the steep, windy hillside… Hector led the way up the path. ‘But what about … Hector, wait for me … What about other subjects?’ ‘Oh, Auntie Robbo knows all about them. Sometimes we do sums. We keep account books, and history – lots of history; then afterwards we ride over the battlefields and go and look at the castles where the murders were done.’ Seeing Merlissa Benck’s shocked expression, Hector explained seriously. ‘Scottish history has a great many murders, you know.’ ‘I dare say,’ said Merlissa Benck shortly. ‘But I should have thought British history would have been more suitable for a boy of your age, indispensable in my opinion. England’s story is a very great and noble one.’ ‘Yes,’ said Hector. ‘But then we couldn’t ride to the battlefields, could we? I mean they were mostly fighting in places that didn’t belong to them, weren’t they?’
January 11, 2026 at 4:39 PM
asls.org.uk
I sit in my moulded black chair
near to Matisse’s ‘Draped Nude’ (1936).

Sometimes someane touches a canvas
and I staun up, which is usually enough…

—Duncan Glen,“Twa Warlds”
in The Edinburgh Book of 20th-Century Scottish Poetry (2005)
#poem #poetry
2/3
edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-edi...
Twa Warlds Duncan Glen I sit in my moulded black chair near to Matisse’s ‘Draped Nude’ (1936). Sometimes someane touches a canvas and I staun up, which is usually enough. I’m no a man o unnecessary words. Sometimes I adjust the thermostat. Sometimes I tak a daunder roond the gallery and if it’s empty staun by my favourite wark. It’s Henri Matisse’s ‘Draped Nude’ by the door. Next to it is his ‘The Inattentive Reader’ (1919) bequeathed by M. Shearman through the Contemporary Art Society 1940. No. 5141. I’m especially fond o its frame wi decoratit gilt in twa layers gien a wee sunken ledge at the tap atween its back and front. There I keep my ball-point pen.
January 11, 2026 at 3:03 PM
asls.org.uk
The laverock rises owe blin waas
At ane wi the great North wun
At the heid o hecht…

—“The Heid o Hecht” by Duncan Glen, born #OTD, 11 Jan, 1933. Starting out as an apprentice printer he was a poet, designer, editor, publisher, & academic
#poem #poetry
1/3
asls.org.uk/publications...
Duncan Glen The Heid o Hecht The laverock rises owe blin waas At ane wi the great North wun At the heid o hecht. Here The Stuarts huntit the reid deer And I look doun at that sma grey toun Wi its fremmit Freench-like Palace Whaur aince kings walkt wi thochts O the saft wuns o the Sooth; Saft wuns that cam lown north Bringin the bricht bird o simmer That has but a glisk o that cauld yin Wha moves baith gress and pine. There By toom waas whaur aince kings sat Wi braw sudroun tapestries hidin The grey stane that cam straucht Frae the quarries o this hill. Stanes and laverock risin heich In the cauld wun that kens nae Swallow, gouk, or that simmer swarm O flees. And the great stanes are bare. Nae claith or burnin wud that can Gie and tak frae that cauld hunter oot On the hill wi the laverock wha passes Owre aw at the heid o hecht.
January 11, 2026 at 3:03 PM
asls.org.uk
Lourd on my hert as winter lies
The state that Scotland’s in the day.
Spring to the North has aye come slow
But noo dour winter’s like to stay
For guid,
And no’ for guid!

—Hugh MacDiarmid, “Lourd on My Hert”
SELECTED POETRY (New Directions, 1993)
#BookWormSat #poem
www.ndbooks.com/book/selecte...
Lourd on My Hert by Hugh MacDiarmid Lourd on my hert as winter lies The state that Scotland’s in the day. Spring to the North has aye come slow But noo dour winter’s like to stay For guid, And no’ for guid! O wae’s me on the weary days When it is scarce grey licht at noon; It maun be a’ the stupid folk Diffusin’ their dullness roon and roon Like soot That keeps the sunlicht oot. Nae wonder if I think I see A lichter shadow than the neist I’m fain to cry: “The dawn, the dawn! I see it brakin’ in the East.” But ah – It’s juist mair snaw!
January 10, 2026 at 4:07 PM
asls.org.uk
Reading Scotland’s Witches
20 Jan, 6–7:30 German time (5–6:30 GMT)
Free online

Dr Cordula Lemke looks at witchcraft in Scottish literature, & how Geillis Duncan – one of the first Scottish witches to die – is remembered in literature & popular culture today
www.scotland.uni-mainz.de/reading-scot...
READING SCOTLAND with Cordula Lemke Scotland’s Witches Tuesday, 20th January 2026 6:00–7:30pm (German time) on MS Teams www.scotland.uni-mainz.de
January 10, 2026 at 3:27 PM
asls.org.uk
Let Wilkes and Churchill rage no more,
Tho’ scarce provision, learning's good:
What can these hungries next explore,
Even Samuel Johnson loves our food.

—Robert Fergusson (1750–1774), “To Dr Samuel Johnson: Food for a New Edition of his Dictionary”
#poem #poetry #C18th #food #SamuelJohnson
To Dr Samuel Johnson: Food for a New Edition of his Dictionary by Robert Fergusson Let Wilkes and Churchill rage no more, Tho’ scarce provision, learning’s good: What can these hungry’s next implore? Even Samuel Johnson loves our food. —RODONDO GREAT PEDAGOGUE, whose literarian lore, With SYLLABLE and SYLLABLE conjoin’d, To transmutate and varyfy, has learn’d The whole revolving scientific names That in the alphabetic columns lie, Far from the knowledge of mortalic shapes, As we, who never can peroculate The miracles by thee miraculiz’d, The Muse silential long, with mouth apert, Would give vibration to stagnatic tongue, And loud encomiate thy puissant name, Eulogiated from the green decline Of Thames’s banks to Scoticanian shores, Where LOCH-LOMONDIAN liquids undulize. To meminate thy name in after times, The mighty Mayor of each regalian town Shall consignate thy work to parchment fair In roll burgharian, and their tables all Shall fumigate with fumigation strong: SCOTLAND, from perpendicularian hills, Shall emigrate her fair MUTTONIAN store, Which late had there in pedestration walk’d, And o’er her airy heights perambuliz’d. Oh, blackest execrations on thy head, EDINA shameless! tho’ he came within The bounds of your NOTATION, tho’ you knew His HONORIFIC name, you noted not, But basely suffer’d him to chariotize Far from your tow’rs, with smoke that nubilate, Nor drank one amicitial swelling cup To welcome him convivial. BAILIES all! With rage inflated, Catenations* tear, Nor ever after be you vinculiz’d, Since you that sociability denied To him whose potent Lexiphanian stile [footnote: Catenations, vide CHAINS—Johnson] Words can PROLONGATE, and inswell his page With what in others to a line’s confin’d. Welcome, thou verbal potentate and prince! To hills and valleys, where emerging oats From earth assuage our pauperty to bay, And bless thy name, thy dictionarian skill, Which there definitive will still remain, And oft be speculiz’d by taper blue, While youth STUDENTIOUS turn thy folio page. Have you as yet, in per’patetic mood Regarded with the texture of the eye The CAVE CAVERNICK, where fraternal bard, CHURCHILL, depicted pauperated swains With thraldom and bleak want reducted sore; Where Nature, colouriz’d, so coarsely fades, And puts her russet par’phernalia on? Have you, as yet, the way explorified To let lignarian chalice, swell’d with oats, Thy orifice approach? Have you as yet, With skin fresh rubified by scarlet spheres, Applied BRIMSTONIC UNCTION to your hide, To terrify the SALAMANDRIAN fire That from involuntary digits asks The strong allaceration?—Or can you swill The USQUEBALIAN flames of whisky blue In fermentation strong? Have you apply’d The kelt aerian to your Anglian thighs, And with renunciation assigniz’d Your breeches in LONDONA to be worn? Can you, in frigour of Highlandian sky, On heathy summits take nocturnal rest? It cannot be—You may as well desire An alderman leave PLUMB-PUDDENIAN store, And scratch the tegument from pottage-dish, As bid thy countrymen, and thee conjoin’d, Forsake stomachic joys. Then hie you home, And be a malcontent, that naked hinds, On lentiles fed, can make your kingdom quake, And tremulate Old England libertiz’d!
January 10, 2026 at 3:19 PM
asls.org.uk
White stones shaped like hearts:
you can tell they were chosen.

In the winter garden
they gleam on bare ground…

—Sheenagh Pugh, “Gardening”
published in A Little Touch of Cliff in the Evening: New Writing Scotland 30 (ASL, 2012)
#poem #poetry
Gaderning by Sheenagh Pugh White stones shaped like hearts: you can tell they were chosen. In the winter garden they gleam on bare ground. Hooded crows land on the hard seed-beds, frost crazes the buds of a leafless rose. The gardener, indoors, has eyes only for the woman resting more and more, who will not see spring undammed in a blue rush. Forget-me-nots lie in ambush: the stones are shaped like hearts.
January 9, 2026 at 2:03 PM
asls.org.uk
A giant blue banner attached to a pole, photographed against the s. In large capital letters it reads LIBARY
January 9, 2026 at 2:12 AM
asls.org.uk
Snaw is bluffertin’ the toun,
Gurly wunds are roustin’ roun’,
Peety fowk in broken shoon
This winter nicht…

—Helen Burness Cruickshank (1886–1975), “Song of Pity for Refugees”
published in Collected Poems (Reprographia, 1971)
#Scots #poem #poetry
Song of Pity for Refugees by Helen Burness Cruickshank Snaw is bluffertin’ the toun, Gurly wunds are roustin’ roun’, Peety fowk in broken shoon This winter nicht. Peety help the weary auld, Claes nor fire to fend aff cauld, Hoose nor ha’ them safe to hauld This winter nicht. Peety wham in a’ the warld Fortune fell through hell has harled, Hungert, hameless, broken, marled, This winter nicht. Peety men withooten kin, Ne’er a freend to cry them ben, Nane their deein’ sauls to sain This winter nicht.
January 8, 2026 at 5:04 PM
asls.org.uk
This was the year before the year
that collapsed on us, a roof brought down by snow.
The year of riding through abandoned stations
on the riverside line that never crossed the river…

—Pippa Little, “This Was the Year”
from OVERWINTERING, @carcanet.bsky.social 2012
www.carcanet.co.uk/978190618806...
This Was the Year by Pippa Little This was the year before the year that collapsed on us, a roof brought down by snow. The year of riding through abandoned stations on the riverside line that never crossed the river but danced among warehouses, silos and factories (deceased) beside battleships settling into red mud. This was the year that, too exhausted to sleep, I boiled down the pink and ivory and blue of other women’s hands into a single grey slab. The soap pot next the soup, fumes of gardenia and bone. This was the year we were always coming home. Three steps and a garden where the splayed trike in the frost said better to have careless love than none at all. This was the year before the year I found out that we are fused from lightning, our bodies maps across which electrical storms flare and move on. This was the year extremely far rooftops and lit windows seen from a plane flying its late night mission had their glow zapped by pinball fire. This was the year I closed the door underneath the porch light and stood out on the first of the three front steps, listening. Our children’s beds expecting their bodies to come warm them like small fires but growing cold with waiting.
January 8, 2026 at 2:30 PM
asls.org.uk
“As the home of Aberdeen Angus, Ayrshire bacon, & haggis, Scotland has an especially meaty reputation”

—From BUDDHA DA, DUCK FEET, THE PANOPTICON, TRAINSPOTTING, & more: Gina Lyle looks at vegetarianism in contemporary Scottish fiction
#BookologyThursday
💙📚
www.thebottleimp.org.uk/2024/11/vege...
Book cover BUDDHA DA Anne Donovan Shortlisted for the Orange Prize Shortlisted for the Whitbread First Novel Award "A beauty" – Sunday Telegraph "Anne Donovan is to be cherished" – Times Literary Supplement A pal green cover showing a stylised hill, with silhouettes of tall buildings in the distance. On top of the hill is a tree, shedding leaves. Under the tree are two small figures dressed in orange: one is a girl, who stands on the left; she looks towards a man who is sitting cross-legged under the tree, his back to us. Book cover DUCK FEET Ely Percy Five stars – The Skinny magazine "As tender, fickle, excruciating, surreal, tragic, hilarious and intense as teenage life itself." – Kirstin Innes Scottish Fiction Book of the Year 2021 The cover image shows the frontage of a block of flats, somewhere in Scotland. There are six windows visible set into a brown, stained, harled surface. There is a strip of clear blue sky visible above the grey roof. Book cover THE PANOPTICON Jenni Fagan "Utterly magnificent" – Irvine Welsh "A terrific book … I love it" – Ali Smith Granta Best Young British Novelist 2013 A dark blue cover, with a full moon at its centre. A young girl dressed in red and black sits at the front right, looking down, resting her chin on one hand. There are pale bare branches and stars around the moon behind her. Book cover TRAINSPOTTING Irvine Welsh Vintage Classics Three-quarters of a white grinning skull can be seen against a background of orange with darker brown blobs and blotches. The skull looks as if it has been sprayed on.
January 8, 2026 at 2:10 PM
asls.org.uk
it wis January
and a gey dreich day
the first day Ah went to the school…

—Liz Lochhead, “Kidspoem/Bairnsang”
published in A CHOOSING: The Selected Poems of Liz Lochhead (Polygon, 2017)
#poem #poetry #scots #language #MinorityLanguages
birlinn.co.uk/product/a-ch...
Kidspoem/Bairnsang Liz Lochhead it wis January and a gey dreich day the first day Ah went to the school so my Mum happed me up in ma good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood birled a scarf aroon ma neck pu’ed oan ma pixie an my pawkies it wis that bitter said noo ye’ll no starve gie’d me a wee kiss and a kid-oan skelp oan the bum and sent me aff across the playground tae the place Ah’d learn to say it was January and a really dismal day the first day I went to school so my mother wrapped me up in my best navy-blue top coat with the red tartan hood twirled a scarf around my neck pulled on my bobble-hat and mittens it was so bitterly cold said now you won’t freeze to death gave me a little kiss and a pretend slap on the bottom and sent me off across the playground to the place I’d learn to forget to say it wis January and a gey dreich day the first day Ah went to the school so my Mum happed me up in ma good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood birled a scarf aroon ma neck pu’ed oan ma pixie an ma pawkies it wis that bitter. Oh saying it was one thing but when it came to writing it in black and white the way it had to be said was as if you were posh, grown-up, male, English and dead.
January 7, 2026 at 12:43 PM
asls.org.uk
“Artist put your brush away
Tiny Partick are here to stay”

From the @natlibscot.bsky.social Moving Image archive – a clip from a 1975 documentary about John Byrne, where he talks about painting his gable-end mural in Partick & the public reaction to it
2/8
movingimage.nls.uk/film/T2287/7...
John Byrne in 1975, looking windswept and interesting and wearing decidedly Edwardian/Bohemian garb – a dark red velvet jacket, a soft, loose grey shirt with large buttons, with a wing-collar undershirt. A row of Corinthian pillars are arrayed behind him.
January 6, 2026 at 1:19 PM
asls.org.uk
Playwright & artist John Byrne (1940–2023) was born #OTD, 6 Jan. An extraordinary talent, best known for the SLAB BOYS trilogy & TUTTI FRUTTI & YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART, he also designed album covers for Gerry Rafferty & the set for THE CHEVIOT, THE STAG & THE BLACK BLACK OIL

A 🎂🧵
#art #theatre
1/8
“The Riddie”, by John Byrne, 2018, ink & watercolour on board. A stylised head-and-shoudlers self-portrait of the artist. A long forelock of grey hair dangles down from his forehead as he looks askance out of the painting. His eyes are large and expressive, his nose triangular and enormous. His mouth is hidden behind a bristling white moustache and beard, and an unlit cigarette pokes out from between them.
January 6, 2026 at 1:19 PM
asls.org.uk
Up in the morning’s no for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly…

—“Up in the Morning Early”, by Robert Burns – poet of the people 🫡
#poem #poetry #C18th
www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/morning...
Up in the Morning Early By Robert Burns Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly; Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, I’m sure it’s winter fairly. CHORUS Up in the morning’s no for me, Up in the morning early; When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw, I’m sure its winter fairly. The birds sit chittering in the thorn, A’ day they fare but sparely; And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn, I’m sure it’s winter fairly. CHORUS Up in the morning’s no for me, Up in the morning early; When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw, I’m sure its winter fairly.
January 6, 2026 at 11:27 AM
asls.org.uk
“Respectability is doubled with degradation; abandon with restraint; honesty with duplicity”

@gregbuzwell.bsky.social explores how JEKYLL & HYDE engaged with #C19 debates about evolution, degeneration, consciousness, homosexuality & criminal psychology
5/8
www.britishlibrary.cn/en/articles/...
A sepia photograph from 1887 showing the actor Richard Mansfield in the stage adaptation of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, performed a year after the publication of the novel. Using a double exposure, Mansfield's two poses are superimposed on top of each other: one shows an elegant, thoughtful Victorian gentleman, one hand raised beside his head; the other, a hunched and bestial figure, hands outstretched like claws.
January 5, 2026 at 12:57 PM
asls.org.uk
“The manuscript also contains Stevenson’s edits, in some places quite extensive… Stevenson complicates the distinction between the two poles that Jekyll & Hyde are supposed to represent”

—RLS’s handwritten manuscript is online, via New York’s Morgan Library
2/8
www.themorgan.org/collection/r...
The top part of the first page of Stevenson’s manuscript of STRANGE CASE OF DR JEKYLL AND MR HYDE, written in Stevenson’s slanted, rapid handwriting, with additions, amendments, and pencilled notes. The chapter heading reads “Story of the door”.
January 5, 2026 at 12:57 PM
asls.org.uk
Off Lindisfarne
the waves shiver like monks
at their ablutions.

Under high horizontals
of ice-cloud, the sky
scrubbed clean as a dairy…

—Alison Fell, “January, 5”
published in LIGHTYEAR (Smokestack Books, 2005)
#poem #poetry
www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/january...
January, 5 by Alison Fell Off Lindisfarne the waves shiver like monks at their ablutions. Under high horizontals of ice-cloud, the sky scrubbed clean as a dairy. The train darts north, hungry as a tongue. Only the exile longs for the words to name a country: either live it or learn, at a bare table, ancestral silence, like a rumble deep in the loch’s throat, the forgotten song of the curling-stone, the snow slipping like white meat from the bones of the mountain.
January 5, 2026 at 11:08 AM
asls.org.uk
Winter winds are biting,
Etching the woods in shadows.

The paw prints of hunting dogs
Are black stars in the snow…

—Sheena Blackhall, “A Brueghel Winter”
🖼️ Pieter Bruegel the Elder, “Hunters in the Snow”, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna
#poem #art #painting
www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-brueg...
A Brueghel Winter by Sheena Blackhall Winter winds are biting, Etching the woods in shadows. The paw prints of hunting dogs Are black stars in the snow Beyond the icy poles of denuded trees Even the hawks have frozen Hanging, still, in the bleak chill of day. The hill is a perilous stair Here and there, in isolated pools Fish blink up through glassy windows of water The year turns on its axis Underground, numb snowdrops shiver and wait. “Hunters in the Snow”, by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, (Netherlands, mid-16th century). Executed primarily in gloomy whites and murky greys, the topography represents a river-cut valley overtaken by freezing snow with barren, rugged mountain peaks looming in the distance. In the foreground, three hunters and a pack of dogs return from a quest, with the hunters' slumped bodies and the dogs' bowed heads suggesting the catch was disappointing. In the town below, some people make winter preparations while others enjoy winter pastimes on the ice. A frozen water-mill, and bare trees inhabited by several crows, suggest the harshness of the season.
January 4, 2026 at 7:04 PM