Forgotten Voices
There is a sense of vertigo in thinking about people who lived full lives with uncountable thoughts, impressions and ideas. Who suffered, and laughed and had entire lives that are now long lost, reclaimed by the earth. But some of them remain through what they left behind in ink. In those words they left little fragments of their souls for us to connect with. That is what I want this Forgotten Voices series to be about.
It’s about lives lived in a world that was altogether different from ours. Their voices used to shift the air and delight their friends, yet we know almost nothing of their daily existence except for what was written down. And when I read these texts – and really imagine the human behind the pen – I stand in awe at how similar we all are. It’s as if we are speaking to each other across time, sharing familiar stories. I see myself and my story in their words. Nothing fundamental about the human spirit has changed, and there is a weird sense of comfort in that. It is bittersweet, knowing that things will end. They struggled with the same things we did, and drew delight from nature and the world like we do. And now they are dead and we are here, retracing their steps, going through the same struggles and questions and doubts. What a strange world this is, when you really think about it.
By reading their words once again, I feel like I can connect with minds centuries gone. I can see the world through their eyes briefly, and it helps cast new light on how I look at my own life. And I hope it can do the same for you.
In this first Forgotten Voices instalment I want to share a curated excerpt from Celia Thaxter’s Among the Isles of Shoals. It’s a familiar story despite its age – Celia writes beautifully about retreating to a rock in the Atlantic to learn how to hear her own thoughts, which is at the essence of Soulfaring. I hope you enjoy being transported in time and hearing her lyrical words.
Among the Isles of Shoals – Celia Thaxter
The eternal sound of the sea on every side has a tendency to wear away the edge of human thought and perception; sharp outlines become blurred and softened like a sketch in charcoal; nothing appeals to the mind with the same distinctness as on the mainland, amid the rush and stir of people and things, and the excitements of social life.
Sailing out from Portsmouth Harbor with a fair wind from the northwest, the Isles of Shoals lie straight before you, nine miles away,—ill-defined and cloudy shapes, faintly discernible in the distance.
Swept by every wind that blows, and beaten by the bitter brine for unknown ages, well may the Isles of Shoals be barren, bleak, and bare. At first sight nothing can be more rough and inhospitable than they appear. The incessant influences of wind and sun, rain, snow, frost, and spray, have so bleached the tops of the rocks, that they look hoary as if with age, though in the summer-time a gracious greenness of vegetation breaks here and there the stern outlines, and softens somewhat their rugged aspect.
Yet so forbidding are their shores, it seems scarcely worth while to land upon them,—mere heaps of tumbling granite in the wide and lonely sea,—when all the smiling, “sapphire-spangled marriage-ring of the land” lies ready to woo the voyager back again, and welcome his returning prow with pleasant sights and sounds and scents that the wild wastes of water never know.
But to the human creature who has eyes that will see and ears that will hear, nature appeals with such a novel charm, that the luxurious beauty of the land is half forgotten before one is aware. Its sweet gardens, full of color and perfume, its rich woods and softly swelling hills, its placid waters, and fields and flowery meadows, are no longer dear and desirable; for the wonderful sound of the sea dulls the memory of all past impressions, and seems to fulfil and satisfy all present needs. Landing for the first time, the stranger is struck only by the sadness of the place,—the vast loneliness; for there are not even trees to whisper with familiar voices,—nothing but sky and sea and rocks. But the very wildness and desolation reveal a strange beauty to him. Let him wait till evening comes,
“With sunset purple soothing all the waste,”
and he will find himself slowly succumbing to the subtile charm of that sea atmosphere. He sleeps with all the waves of the Atlantic murmuring in his ears, and wakes to the freshness of a summer morning; and it seems as if morning were made for the first time.
For the world is like a new-blown rose, and in the heart of it he stands, with only the caressing music of the water to break the utter silence, unless, perhaps, a song-sparrow pours out its blissful warble like an embodied joy. The sea is rosy, and the sky; the line of land is radiant; the scattered sails glow with the delicious color that touches so tenderly the bare, bleak rocks. These are lovelier than sky or sea or distant sails, or graceful gulls’ wings reddened with the dawn; nothing takes color so beautifully as the bleached granite; the shadows are delicate, and the fine, hard outlines are glorified and softened beneath the fresh first blush of sunrise. All things are speckless and spotless; there is no dust, no noise, nothing but peace in the sweet air and on the quiet sea.
The day goes on; the rose changes to mellow gold, the gold to clear, white daylight, and the sea is sparkling again. A breeze ripples the surface, and wherever it touches the color deepens. A seine-boat passes, with the tawny net heaped in the stern, and the scarlet shirts of the rowers brilliant against the blue. Pleasantly their voices come across the water, breaking the stillness.
The fishing-boats steal to and fro, silent, with glittering sails; the gulls wheel lazily; the far-off coasters glide rapidly along the horizon; the mirage steals down the coast-line, and seems to remove it leagues away. And what if it were to slip down the slope of the world and disappear entirely? You think, in a half-dream, you would not care. Many troubles, cares, perplexities, vexations, lurk behind that far, faint line for you. Why should you be bothered any more?
“Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.”
And so the waves, with their lulling murmur, do their work, and you are soothed into repose and transient forgetfulness.
The Forgotten Voices Print Editions & Book Club
The idea behind Forgotten Voices is to share my love for connecting across time with writers who put their souls into their writing, and shared their observations of the world, but have since been mostly forgotten. I will be sharing four Forgotten Voices essays a year – one per season – starting today with this Autumn edition!
For those who want to dig deeper and discuss these texts with myself and others, I am inviting you to a community book club as well as releasing physical and e-book editions of every featured book that I personally typeset and design, starting with Celia Thaxter’s Among the Isles of Shoals.
Free Subscribers: Receive every seasonal Forgotten Voices essay and can join the conversation in the post comments.
Paid Subscribers: Receive a free e-book version, full access to our dedicated seasonal book club discussions (our first gathering will be in early December) and can claim hand-typeset physical editions at printing+shipping cost (~£9).
Single Physical/E-book Copies: Anyone who purchases a standalone limited edition from SoulfaringStudio (~£18) or the e-book (~£8) will also be invited to that season’s book club discussion. (Prices to be confirmed shortly.)
The next Forgotten Voices Winter Edition will launch at the start of the new year, featuring the story of a London clerk who in 1909 quit his desk on a sudden impulse to cross the Atlantic on a tramp steamer, and fell in love with the incredible biodiversity in the South American jungle.
Stunning introduction, Alex, and I think I like her first paragraph the most. It reminded me of this random bit of The Time Machine, here: “there was that luxurious after-dinner atmosphere, when thought runs gracefully free of the trammels of precision”. A very different situation but a similar sentiment, of a kind of freeing blur. When was this written?
I have Celia Thaxter’s book, upon the inside cover of which it is noted that my aunt gave it to my grandmother. This is quite natural as my family has either summered, lived year-round or conducted business here in Rye, NH, across the ocean from the Isles for over 100 years. In fact, today I am sitting on my sofa in my apartment in Rye, looking at the Isles of Shoals. What a beautiful coincidence to read your piece!