Good-bye to All That by Robert Graves review – a timely reissue | Books | The Guardian Good-bye to All That by Robert Graves review – a timely reissue Graves's superbly sardonic memoir should be essential reading for the centenary of the first world war A 'bitter leave-taking of England' … Robert Graves. Photograph: Alamy Friday 16 May 2014 11.30 EDT First published on Friday 16 May 2014 11.30 EDT Share on Messenger Close Robert Graves 's superbly sardonic account of his childhood, schooling, the great war and his first marriage was written in just four months in 1929, when he was 33. It was his attempt at "a formal good-bye to you and to you and to you and to me and to all that". By then he had separated from his wife and was living with the American poet Laura Riding. The idea of a farewell to the past was hers. In 1957, when Graves re-edited the memoir, "the book's hidden mentor was effaced", as Andrew Motion says in the introduction to this timely reissue of the original edition.

It is a remarkable book, a "bitter leave-taking of England" as Graves described it. He hated Charterhouse school , where he was mercilessly bullied: "I came near a nervous breakdown." He enlisted within days of the outbreak of war because he "dreaded" going up to Oxford. His vivid account of life and death in the trenches is haunting: "I kept myself awake and alive by drinking about a bottle of whisky a day." Seriously wounded (and reported dead), he found life back in Blighty almost as bad: "everyone was mad". Essential reading for the centenary of the first world war. Boekverslag Engels Goodbye to all that door Robert Graves | Scholieren.com Title: Goodbye to all that Author: Robert Graves Date of first publication: 1929 Which edition: Penguin Modern Classics 1981 No. of pages: 282 2. Author Robert Graves was born in 1985 at Wimbledon into a middle-class family. He was son of Alfred Perceval Graves, the Irish writer and Amalia von Ranke. Gravesï¿½s childhood was a happy one.

He went from school to the First World War, where he became a captain in the Royal Welch Fusiliers. Robert Graves was a respected historian and classical scholar. He was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford in 1961. He wrote mostly historical novels which include: I, Claudius; Claudius the God; Sergeant Lamb of the Ninth, Count Belisarius, Wife to Mr Milton; The Golden fleece,ï¿½ He wrote his autobiography, Goodbye to All That in 1929. His most discussed books are The White Goddess, which presents a new view of the poetic impulse, and The Nazarene Gospel Restored, a re-examination of primitive Christianity. He has translated Apuleius, Lucan and Suetonius. He was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford in 1961, and made an Honorary Fellow of St Johnï¿½s College, Oxford, in 1971. He lived in Majorca from 1929 till he dies in December 1985. 3. Setting of the book The story takes place from the moment Robert is born, in 1895 till 1929, when he leaves England.

The epilogue of the story, which Robert Graves wrote in 1957, consists the years 1929 till 1957. The story takes place in England (where Robert is born, where he spent his childhood, his leaves during the war and his life after the war till 1929), in Germany (where he went on vacation), in France (where he serves during the war) and in Egypt (where he lives a few years after the war) 4. Plot 'Goodbye to all That' is Robert Graves's candid self-portrait of his childhood, his experiences as a young officer in the World War I and the few years after. 5. Characters Major character Robert Graves: He is the major character in the story, the I-figure. He is born in Wimbledon, England and has a pretty educated youth. When the war begins, he decides to serve in the army in France. There he goes through a lot, which affects his character. He becomes very scared and standoffish. He becomes a very well-known poet. Minor characters Nancy Nicholson: First the girlfriend of Robert, later his wife. Sheï¿½s a feminist and a painter, she decorates Robertï¿½s poems.

She marries with Robert on the age of 18. They have together 4 children. They divorce in 1929. Siegfried Sassoon: A friend of Robert during the war. They both love poems. He becomes later a well-known poet, just like Robert. Siegfried had a strong protest against the war, which he showed publicly, but Robert saves him by saying he is suffering from shell-shock and has to go to a hospital. Dick: A friend of Robert during his school-time at Charterhouse. Itï¿½s not only a friend, but Robert has a sort of homo-relationship with him, though itï¿½s not that serious. Dick likes poems, just like Robert does and they have some more interests in common. In the war Dick goes mad and has to go to a hospital. 6. Theme / Themes The major theme of this book is the First World War, the story takes place during this time, Robert serves in the war and everything turns around the war. But an other theme could be, like the title suggests, that it focuses on Robertï¿½s realization that the English society was something he didnï¿½t want to participate in.

Itï¿½s a goodbye to illusion as well, the war came and left and nothing is the same again. B Your personal opinion 1. Which character(s) in the book did you especially like? What qualities that these persons had appealed to you? Explain why! (quote from the book and give page number) There arenï¿½t really a lot of characters in the book I liked, almost everyone did something that isnï¿½t correct. I remember one man called Baxter who was really brave, he rescued a wounded man at the risk of his life: ï¿½He jumped quickly over the parapet, then strolled across No Manï¿½s Land, waving a handkerchief; the Germans fired to frighten him, but since he persisted they let him come up close. Baxter continued towards them and, when he got to the Middlesex man, stopped and pointed to show the Germans what he was at. Then he dressed the manï¿½s wounds, gave him a drink of rum and some biscuit that he had with him, and promised to be back again at nightfall.

He did come back, with a stretcher-party, and the man eventually recovered.ï¿½ Page numbers 137/138. 2. Which character(s) in the book did you especially dislike? What in their behaviour displeased you or angered you? Explain why. (quote from the book and give page numbers) There are a lot of characters in the book I did really dislike. There are a lot of people who do horrifying things in this book, a lot of people who murder other people or just are very close to beasts. An example of someone I really disliked is a man called ï¿½The Actorï¿½, who is an officer: ï¿½We came on The Boy lying on his stretcher, wounded in the lungs and stomach. Jamaica was standing over him in tears, blubbering: ï¿½Poor old Boy, poor old Boy, heï¿½s going to die; Iï¿½m sure he is. Heï¿½s the only one who treated me decently.ï¿½ The Actor, finding that we could not get by, said to Jamaica: ï¿½Take that poor sod out of the way, will you?

Iï¿½ve got to get my company up. Put him into a dug-out or somewhere.ï¿½ Jamaica made no answer; he seemed paralysed by the horror of the occasion and kept repeating: ï¿½Poor old Boy, poor old Boy!ï¿½ ï¿½Look here,ï¿½ said The Actor, ï¿½if you canï¿½t shift him into a dug-out weï¿½ll have to lift him on top of the trench. He canï¿½t live now, and weï¿½re late getting up.ï¿½ï¿½ Page number 132. 3. Did you find any humour in the book? Describe the part(s) that you made smile or laugh. Give a short example, if possible. I didnï¿½t find a lot humour in the book, but if there was any humour, it was a raw sort. For example a guy Robert meets in the war, ï¿½called ï¿½Dym Baconï¿½, which was Welsh for ï¿½there isnï¿½t any baconï¿½. (He had won the nickname in his recruit days.

The son of a Welsh farmer and accustomed to good food, he had complained about his first morningï¿½s breakfast, shouting to the orderly sergeant: ï¿½Do you call this a bloody breakfast, man? Dym bacon, dym sausages, dym herrings, dym bloody anything! Nothing but bloody bread and jaaam!ï¿½)ï¿½ Page number 219. 4. What feelings did this book arouse in you? What part(s) made you feel worried, sad, frightened, angry, envious, excited, surprised etc. Copy a sentence or passage of the book that struck you in some way. This book made me often horrified and sad, especially when the story takes place during the war. There are just so many deaths and itï¿½s all so unnecessary! When you read this book you just canï¿½t imagine how people can do this all to each other. An example is a story an Australian told Robert: ï¿½Well, the biggest lark I had was at Morlancourt, when we took it the first time.

There were a lot of Jerries in a cellar, and I said to 'em: "Come out, you Camarades!" So out they came, a dozen of 'em, with their hands up. "Turn out your pockets," I told 'em. They turned 'em out. Watches and gold and stuff, all dinkum. Then I said: "Now back to your cellar, you sons of bitches!" For I couldn't be bothered with 'em. When they were all safely down I threw half a dozen Mills bombs in after 'em. I'd got the stuff all right, and we weren't taking prisoners that day.ï¿½ Page number 154. 5. What was your favourite part of the book? Why did you especially like this part? Explain. My favourite part of the book was the beginning of the book, because everything is just so peaceful and calm, the war hasnï¿½t begun yet and there arenï¿½t any death-cases. 6. Write down something you have learnt from the book, or something you have discovered from the book.

I learnt that the first World War was just horrible, of course I knew that already, but itï¿½s even more confronting when you read a true story of someone who dealt with this all. I discovered that everyone can do horrible things, though they are in real very nice persons. When youï¿½re confronting with war, there isnï¿½t anything sure. 7. Choose a piece of music / a song that fits (a passage in) the book. Explain why they fit together. Include the lyrics / the song. The song I chose that fits the book is ï¿½In warï¿½ by Rocksucker. I chose the song because the theme of this song is war, just as the theme of the book. It also consist the question ï¿½Why?ï¿½, just like in the book. Rocksucker - In War As we stand here, waiting for the enemy We're in war, 'cause we want to be free Trying to ignore, that we're all gonna die This useless killing, can someone tell me why?

We are in war Thousands dead and there will be more Killing, and getting killed With dead body's, the land is filled The second attack, but we still stand tall We're driving them back, but maybe next time we'll fall A bloody battlefield, is all I can see My sword and shield, are only important to me Now I stand here, killing without thought Everybody's dead, with whom I've fought Now blood and guts, lying all around me The enemy lost, and we are finally free We won the war Our freedom, is what we did it for Thousands have been killed With dead enemies, the land is filled C The Summary The first part of the book is about the youth of Robert, especially about the schools he went to. First he went to several preparatory schools, but his father thought that he didnï¿½t learn there a lot, so he changed schools pretty often. After all the preparatory schools he went to public school, to Charterhouse. Robert didnï¿½t really liked it there, because he was bullied by some elder boys. But after a few years he liked it more, because he got some friends, like Dick, with whom he falls in love.

He also joined a poet-society and he started to box, to do something against the bullying. When heï¿½s finished with Charterhouse, he donï¿½t want to go to university yet, so he decides to serve in the army, the First World War started meanwhile. The second part of the book is about the war. After a few weeks preparation on a depot in England, he wants to go to France. When he arrives there, he can very soon go into the trenches to fight. The first thing he sees there is that a man commits suicide, because he canï¿½t handle it anymore. Thatï¿½s of course not very encouraging. After some bombardments and heavy fighting, Robert goes to some other trenches and gets wounded there. He goes to England to recover and soon is in the war again. He meets Siegfried Sassoon, who becomes a very good friend of him, especially because he loves poetry as well. After a few months Robert gets wounded again, now more seriously. After some long recovering he finally can go back, but he soon gets wounded again, the last thing he sees in France is a man who commits suicide.

The injury is that serious that he canï¿½t go back to the war. He meets Nancy Nicholson, with who he marries. In 1918 the war is officially over. The third part of the book is about Robertï¿½s life after the war. He lives together with Nancy and they get 4 children. He decides to go to university where he graduates on English literature, especially poetry. Because Nancy is ill, itï¿½s better for them to a country with a warmer climate, so when he can get a job on the university of Cairo, they decide to go to Egypt. After some years working there, they go back to England, but Nancy and Robert get so many argues that they decide to leave each other. Robert decides to leave England, because he canï¿½t live there anymore, he goes to Majorca. D The Review A cool farewell to illusion By the time Graves had written this book, he was 35 and was living with Laura Riding, his literary muse and lover. Yet he does not mention her in the book.

Rather he concentrates on the disastrous British school system that he endured as a child and young man, his experiences in WWI, and ends with the downfall of his first marriage to Nancy Nicholson (the mother of his 4 children) and his teaching position in Egypt at the University of Cairo. Nancy was a socialist and feminist and eventually she drove Graves away. This is so odd considering that Graves was totally sympathetic to matriarchal power structures and devoted much of his writing and poetry to the White Goddess. There is no White Goddess to be found in these pages however, which is so odd considering his fascination with this topic throughout his poetic and literary career. T.E. Lawrence was a friend of Graves and gave Graves the copy write to four chapters of Pillars of Wisdom for publication in the USA. This allowed Graves additional income to support his writing career as well as a large family. The sections on WWI are the highlights of the book. Robert Graves enlisted at age 19 and became an officer due to his social class. He is seriously wounded and his family is told he is dead but he rises from this condition to regain his health. He meets the poet Siegfried Sassoon during this convalescence. He also meets Dr.

WHR Rivers, the famous neurologist, psychologist, and anthropologist. Rivers introduces Graves to the concepts of the relationships between dreams, myths, poems, and creative imagination, an area of interest for Graves all his life. In the passages on WWI, Graves coolly relates a world wide nightmare and catastrophe. His cool wit and irony distance the reader somewhat from the horror and terror. He describes mutilated bodies with a dry factual style. This cool matter of fact chronological presentation is damning in the extreme of the European leadership that lead the world into this bloody stalemate. For a hot blooded version of WWI I would recommend Dalton Trumbo's Johnny Got his Gun in addition to Grave's cool and analytical matter-of-fact tone. I would also recommend Tuchman's Guns of August for a chronological explanation of the war. I would also recommend Pat Barker's WWI trilogy: Resurrection, Eye in the Door, and The Ghost Road. Grave's factual clear headed narrative reveals the illogical disaster of WWI that killed one in three of Grave's school mates. Graves relates how upper class officers brought servants to war yet as the war progresses a whole generation of males, both the working class and the aristocracy of England, are killed.

WWI shattered the class system of the 18th century and cleared the ground for the modern era. What is Graves saying "goodbye" to? He is saying goodbye to his youth, his first marriage to an early feminist, to old Europe and its rigid class structure, but most of all to illusion. Review found on: Let op De verslagen op Scholieren.com zijn gemaakt door middelbare scholieren en bedoeld als naslagwerk. Gebruik je hoofd en plagieer niet: je leraar weet ook dat Scholieren.com bestaat. Heb je een aanvulling op dit verslag? Laat hem hier achter. voeg reactie toe My father Robert Graves, the war poet who cheated death My father Robert Graves, the war poet who cheated death William Graves at his father's desk in Mallorca Credit: Heathcliff O'Malley Joe Shute , in Mallorca 23 July 2016 • 7:00am On July 22, 1916, Colonel Crawshay, the commanding officer of the 2nd battalion Royal Welch Fusiliers, sat down to compose a letter.

It was the same perfunctory note he had already written so many times in the opening weeks of the Battle of the Somme. “Dear Mrs Graves,” he began. “I very much regret to have to write and tell you your son has died of wounds. He was very gallant, and was doing so well and is a great loss.” The Graves he referred to was the young Captain and poet, Robert, struck by an exploding shell a few days shy of his 21st birthday. The shrapnel had pierced his lung, and the Army medics who found him on the battlefield presumed he would not last the night. Robert Graves in his war uniform Credit: family archive But 6ft2ins and with a toughness that belied his poetic verse, Graves survived that, and the subsequent jolting hospital train ride to Rouen; even if he arrived in such a terrible state that doctors described him as a “hopeless case”. By the time his obituary appeared in the British press, Graves was homeward bound and healing, writing letters to redress the premature news of his demise.

From that moment until he finally lost his faculties and died aged 90 in 1985, the poet continued to furiously scribble; his work never done. And now, in the same house on the same Spanish island where Graves lived for most of his adult life, his son strives to continue that legacy. “As far as I’m concerned, what he did during his life didn’t matter as long as his works are remembered,” William Graves says. William Graves and his father Robert Credit: family archive The 76-year-old is striking not only for the startling resemblance to his father (he possesses the same high forehead, full lips and shock of greying hair) but also for the fact that he and his siblings represent the very last surviving direct links to the poets of the First World War. Siegfried Sassoon’s only son died in 2006, while the likes of Richard Aldington and Ivor Gurney never had children of their own in peacetime. Isaac Rosenberg, Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brooke were killed during the war.

Of the 16 Great War poets commemorated on a stone in Westminster Abbey, only Graves, and the lesser known Herbert Read and Edmund Blunden, are still survived by their children. William Graves is tanned and slim from a lifetime spent on Mallorca. Strolling in the afternoon sun past lemon and plum trees in the grounds of the home his father built in 1932, he recollects a treasure-trove of stories of Graves’s eccentricities, celebrity companions, affairs, and cruelty. Robert Graves's house on the outskirts of the village of Deià Credit: Heathcliff O'Malley Graves called this place on the outskirts of the village of Deià, high up in the towering limestone range of Serra de Tramuntana, Ca N’Alluny (The Faraway House), but even here he could not escape his demons. The horrors of what he had seen during the war and which he had documented in his 1929 biography, Goodbye To All That, remained seared on his consciousness. As he became racked with dementia during the last 20 years of his life, he retreated ever closer to the trenches.

William recalls his father cowering from loud bangs and putting his stick out to try and halt his wheelchair if pushed too fast. “The last 10 years he didn’t know who anybody was,” he says. William, who calls his father Robert, first spotted the start of this decline in 1963 when he received the same letter twice. Soon his father, then in his late 60s, started losing his glasses and struggling to write. William Graves Credit: Heathcliff o'Malley It was at this advanced stage of life, William says, when his father began to adopt his “ muses ”, young international pseudo-intellectuals that he hosted in the marital home. “He started needing more input for his poems and that is when he started having flirts with young girls,” William says. “So long as they behaved badly then he could write poems.” Did he sleep with them? “He’d just had a major prostate operation so it wouldn’t have done him much good.” Even before his formidable mind began to be undone, Graves had already passed a colourful life . He married twice; first to painter Nancy Nicholson, who produced four children before he left her for the American poet Laura Riding and eloped to Spain.

In 1936 they were forced into exile by the Spanish civil war. Riding eventually fell for another man and Graves met his second wife, Beryl Pritchard, a dark-haired Oxford University graduate 20 years his junior. During World War Two they rented a house in Devon and had three children, William, Lucia and Juan (who died last year). Their fourth, Tomas, was born in Mallorca in 1953 after they had moved the entire family back at the end of the war. William, Lucia and Juan in 1951 Credit: family archive William, who has two grown up children of his own, recalls an idyllic youth playing with the offspring of his father’s famous friends. An eight-year-old Stephen Hawking was an early pal – he remembers him delighting in setting off stink bombs – and he once provoked the fury of Alec Guinness after taking his teenage son Matthew to the beach and plying him with strong local wine. While his father revelled in the exotic company , William remembers his mother as a quiet Victorian presence. “She was very closed,” he says. “If you started talking about anything personal she would start talking about cats.

It was that generation.” What, then, did she make of his muses? “As long as he kept quiet and didn’t rock the boat she didn’t care. Well, she cared, but realised there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.” William, who combined his career as a geologist with running a hotel in Deià with his Spanish wife Elena, recalls “vicious” arguments with his father later in life. Beryl and Robert in 1949 Credit: family archive In his own autobiographical book, Wild Olives, published in 1995, he describes the bizarre scenario of his father trying to plant marijuana in the hotel to get them into trouble with the local constabulary. “You were either with him or against him,” he says. When Graves died in December 1985 William says he was “amazed” to learn he had been appointed an executor of his estate. One of his first acts was to publish an anthology of the war poems which Graves had suppressed during his life, deeming them “juvenile” and uninteresting. The Imperial War Museum retains a number of the poems in its archive including one which still bears a muddy imprint of the writer's thumb.

Following the death of his mother in 2003, the family decided to sell the house to the local government and have it preserved as a living museum to Graves’s life and work, of which William is unpaid director. Today everything remains in situ. In his study his notes are still attached to the clipboard he used to carry wherever he walked. The ancient coins and Neolithic axe-head Graves once rubbed for inspiration are still on the mantelpiece. The Georgian candlesticks and tins of Colman’s mustard and Cadbury’s Cocoa show that even in exile Graves never lost his innate sense of Englishness. The poet's headstone Credit: Heathcliff O'Malley The village itself, though, has changed beyond recognition. Celebrities followed the bohemians to Deià and Bob Geldof, Michael Douglas and Andrew Lloyd Webber now keep holiday homes in the mountain. Most recently, the Tom Hiddleston series The Night Manager was filmed here. William says the culture change was enough to make him and his wife sell up their own home in 2007 and move to the Spanish mainland (although they still keep a flat in nearby Palma and his sister Lucia remains in the village).

Modernity wearies, and he does not know for how much longer he will keep coming here and dusting off the ghosts of his past. But for now, like his father before him, he remains driven to keep his own history alive. Follow The Telegraph Editor's Choice 19 Jan 2017, 10:05am Patrick McAleenan 18 Jan 2017, 9:46am Premium 17 Jan 2017, 12:30pm Men latest 20 Jan 2017, 10:26am Good-Bye to All That by Robert Graves Good-Bye to All That by Robert Graves Updated / Sept. 10, 2014 12:09 Goodbye to All That: the First World War recalled by the great stylist and truth-teller Robert Graves. Reviewer score Publisher Penguin, paperback “There was no patriotism in the trenches, “ wrote the late Robert Graves, in Good-Bye to All That, his autobiography which was first published in 1929. “It was too remote a sentiment, and rejected as fit only for civilians.

A new arrival who talked patriotism would soon be told to cut it out.” Graves was born in 1895 in Wimbledon, the son of Dubliner Alfred Perceval Graves, whose father,The Rt. Rev Charles Graves, was the Church of Ireland Bishop of Limerick. The Bishop was an antiquary who discovered the key to ancient Irish Ogham script. “He and the Catholic Bishop were on the best of terms, “ writes Graves early on in his lively account. “They cracked Latin jokes at each other, discussed fine points of scholarship, and were unclerical enough not to take their religious differences too seriously.” Robert’s father, Alfred Perceval, was a school inspector in Ireland, and, like his son, he was a poet. He was also a song-writer who penned the classic Irish ballad, Father O’Flynn. In August 1914, young Robert enlisted in the Royal Welch Fusiliers, following England’s declaration of war on Germany. He was drafted to Northern France in May 1915 and was wounded in July 1916 at the Battle of the Somme.

A false report circulated that he ‘died of wounds.’ Far from it, Graves would go on to write not just this autobiography - which does not shirk the ridiculous and the farcical aspects of his service - but much-lauded works of fiction and history and many celebrated poems. Years after the span of this classic memoir, he would gain fame as the author of the Roman empire-era novels I, Claudius and Claudius the God, both of which were published in 1934. Both novels would be adapted, many years afterwards, for a celebrated BBC TV series in 1976, starring Derek Jacobi, John Hurt, Siân Phillips, and Brian Blessed. Graves’ raw, uncompromising, and acerbic account of life in the trenches of Northern France was instantly acclaimed when it was first published in 1929. “One of the most candid self-portraits, warts and all, ever painted, “ enthused the Times Literary Supplement. This new edition has been newly edited and annotated by Graves expert Fran Brearton, and contains an illuminating introduction by Andrew Motion.

Graves died in 1985, aged 90, at his home in the beautiful coastal village of Deià, Majorca where he had lived for many years. Paddy Kehoe Robert Graves - Wikiquote Robert Graves Dwell on her graciousness , dwell on her smiling , Do not forget what flowers The great boar trampled down in ivy time... Robert Ranke Graves ( 24 July 1895 – 7 December 1985 ) was a prolific English poet, scholar and novelist. He is most famous for his autobiographical work Goodbye to All That , and works on classical themes and mythology, such as I, Claudius , The Greek Myths and The White Goddess . His father was Alfred Perceval Graves . See also: Quotes[ edit ] The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he is really very good — in spite of all the people who say he is very good. Though philosophers like to define poetry as irrational fancy, for us it is practical, humorous , reasonable way of being ourselves. To be a poet is a condition rather than a profession. Reply to questionnaire, "The Cost of Letters" in Horizon (September 1946).

I believe that every English poet should read the English classics, master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them, travel abroad, experience the horror of sordid passion and — if he is lucky enough — know the love of an honest woman. Lecture at Oxford as quoted in Time (15 December 1961). Anthropologists are a connecting link between poets and scientists; though their field-work among primitive peoples has often made them forget the language of science . "Mammon" an address at the London School of Economics (6 December 1963); published in Mammon and the Black Goddess (1965). The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he is really very good — in spite of all the people who say he is very good. Quoted in The Observer [London] (6 December 1964). A perfect poem is impossible. Once it had been written, the world would end. The Paris Review, "Writers at Work: 4th series," interview with Peter Buckman and William Fifield (1969). Philosophy is antipoetic. Philosophize about mankind and you brush aside individual uniqueness, which a poet cannot do without self-damage.

Unless, for a start, he has a strong personal rhythm to vary his metrics, he is nothing . Poets mistrust philosophy. They know that once the heads are counted, each owner of a head loses his personal identity and becomes a number in some government scheme: if not as a slave or serf, at least as a party to the device of majority voting , which smothers personal views. "The Case for Xanthippe" in The Crane Bag (1969). Abstract reason , formerly the servant of practical human reasons, has everywhere become its master, and denies poetry any excuse for existence. Though philosophers like to define poetry as irrational fancy, for us it is practical, humorous, reasonable way of being ourselves. Of never acquiescing in a fraud; of never accepting the secondary-rate in poetry, painting, music, love, friends. Of safeguarding our poetic institutions against the encroachments of mechanized, insensate, inhumane, abstract rationality. "The Case for Xanthippe" in The Crane Bag (1969). Even nowadays an archaic sense of love-innocence recurs, however briefly, among most young men and women.

Some few of these, who become poets, remain in love for the rest of their lives, watching the world with a detachment unknown to lawyers, politicians, financiers, and all other ministers of that blind and irresponsible successor to matriarchy and patriarchy — the mechanarchy. Introduction Poems about Love (1969). Soft words of grace He spoke Unto lost desert -folk That listened wondering . Merciful as constant, constant as various, So be mine, as I yours for ever To the much-tossed Ulysses, never done With woman whether gowned as wife or whore, Penelope and Circe seemed as one.. They multiplied into the Sirens' throng, Forewarned by fear of whom he stood bound fast Hand and foot helpless to the vessel's mast... War was return of earth to ugly earth... Truth-loving Persians do not dwell upon The trivial skirmish fought near Marathon. There is one story and one story only That will prove worth your telling. We forget cruelty and past betrayal , Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall. Trench stinks of shallow buried dead Where Tom stands at the periscope, Tired out.

After nine months he’s shed All fear, all faith, all hate, all hope. "Through the Periscope" (1915) [first published in 1988] Christ of His gentleness Soft words of grace He spoke Unto lost desert-folk That listened wondering. "In the Wilderness," lines 1-6, from Over the Brazier (1916), Part I: Poems Written Mostly at Charterhouse 1910-1914. His eyes are quickened so with grief, He can watch a grass or leaf Every instant grow; he can Clearly through a flint wall see, Or watch the startled spirit flee From the throat of a dead man. "Lost Love," lines 1-6, from Treasure Box (1919). There’s a cool web of language winds us in, Retreat from too much joy or too much fear: We grow sea-green at last and coldly die In brininess and volubility. "The Cool Web," lines 9–12, from Poems 1914-1926 (1927).

As you are woman, so be lovely: As you are lovely, so be various, Merciful as constant, constant as various, So be mine, as I yours for ever. "Pygmalion to Galatea" from Poems 1914-1926 (1927). Take your delight in momentariness, Walk between dark and dark — a shining space With the grave ’s narrowness, though not its peace. "Sick Love," lines 10–12, from Poems 1929. Children, if you dare to think Of the greatness, rareness, muchness, Fewness of this precious only Endless world in which you say You live, you think of things like this: Blocks of slate enclosing dappled Red and green, enclosing tawny Yellow nets, enclosing white And black acres of dominoes, Where a neat brown paper parcel Tempts you to untie the string. "Warning to Children," lines 1–11, from Poems 1929 (1929). Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame That at the whisper of Love’s name, Or Beauty’s, presto!

up you raise Your angry head and stand at gaze? "Down, Wanton, Down!," lines 1-4, from Poems 1930-1933 (1933). To the much-tossed Ulysses, never done With woman whether gowned as wife or whore, Penelope and Circe seemed as one: She like a whore made his lewd fancies run, And wifely she a hero to him bore. "Ulysses" from Poems 1930-1933 (1933). They multiplied into the Sirens' throng, Forewarned by fear of whom he stood bound fast Hand and foot helpless to the vessel's mast, Yet would not stop his ears: daring their song He groaned and sweated till that shore was past. One, two and many: flesh had made him blind, Flesh had one pleasure only in the act, Flesh set one purpose only in the mind — Triumph of flesh and afterwards to find Still those same terrors wherewith flesh was racked.

"Ulysses," lines 16–20, from Poems 1930-1933 (1933). His wiles were witty and his fame far known, Every king's daughter sought him for her own, Yet he was nothing to be won or lost. All lands to him were Ithaca: love-tossed He loathed the fraud, yet would not bed alone. "Ulysses" from Poems 1930-1933 (1933) Sigh then, or frown, but leave (as in despair) Motive and end and moral in the air; Nice contradiction between fact and fact Will make the whole read human and exact. "The Devil’s Advice to Story-tellers," lines 19–22, from Collected Poems 1938 (1938). Entrance and exit wounds are silvered clean, The track aches only when the rain reminds. The one-legged man forgets his leg of wood, The one-armed man his jointed wooden arm. The blinded man sees with his ears and hands As much or more than once with both his eyes.

"Recalling War," lines 1–6, from Collected Poems 1938 (1938). What, then, was war? No mere discord of flags But an infection of the common sky That sagged ominously upon the earth. "Recalling War," lines 11–13, from Collected Poems 1938 (1938). War was return of earth to ugly earth, War was foundering of sublimities, Extinction of each happy art and faith By which the world had still kept head in air. "Recalling War," lines 31–34, from Collected Poems 1938 (1938). Truth-loving Persians do not dwell upon The trivial skirmish fought near Marathon. "The Persian Version," lines 1–2, from Poems 1938-1945: Satires and Grotesques (1946). There is one story and one story only That will prove worth your telling, Whether as learned bard or gifted child; To it all lines or lesser guards belong That startle with their shining Such common stories as they stray into.

"To Juan at the Winter Solstice" from Poems 1938-1945 (1946). Water to water, ark again to ark, From woman back to woman: So each new victim treads unfalteringly The never altered circuit of his fate, Bringing twelve peers as witness Both to this starry rise and starry fall. "To Juan at the Winter Solstice" from Poems 1938-1945 (1946). She in left hand bears a leafy quince; When with her right she crooks a finger, smiling, How may the King hold back? Royally then he barters life for love. "To Juan at the Winter Solstice" from Poems 1938-1945 (1946). Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup: Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward. The log groans and confesses There is one story and one story only. "To Juan at the Winter Solstice" from Poems 1938-1945 (1946).

Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling, Do not forget what flowers The great boar trampled down in ivy time. Her brow was creamy as the crested wave, Her sea-blue eyes were wild But nothing promised that is not performed. "To Juan at the Winter Solstice," lines 37–42, from Poems 1938-1945 (1946). All saints revile her, and all sober men Ruled by the God Apollo's golden mean — In scorn of which we sailed to find her In distant regions likeliest to hold her Whom we desired above all things to know, Sister of the mirage and echo. "The White Goddess," lines 1–6, from Poems and Satires (1951). But we are gifted, even in November, Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense Of her nakedly worn magnificence We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall. "The White Goddess," lines 18–22, from Poems and Satires (1951). Love is a universal migraine. A bright stain on the vision Blotting out reason.

"Symptoms of Love," lines 1-3, from More Poems (1961). Take courage, lover! Could you endure such pain At any hand but hers? "Symptoms of Love" from More Poems (1961). Fairies and Fusiliers (1917)[ edit ] The holiest, cruellest pains I feel, Die stillborn, because old men squeal For something new: "Write something new: We've read this poem — that one too, And twelve more like 'em yesterday"? "To An Ungentle Critic" It doesn't matter what's the cause, What wrong they say we're righting, A curse for treaties, bonds and laws , When we're to do the fighting ! It doesn't matter what's the cause, What wrong they say we're righting, A curse for treaties, bonds and laws, When we're to do the fighting! "To Lucasta on Going to the War — For the Fourth Time" Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray, And so decide who started This bloody war , and who's to pay...

Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray, And so decide who started This bloody war, and who's to pay, But he must be stout-hearted, Must sit and stake with quiet breath, Playing at cards with Death. Don't plume yourself he fights for you; It is no courage, love, or hate, But let us do the things we do; It's pride that makes the heart be great; It is not anger, no, nor fear — Lucasta he's a Fusilier, And his pride keeps him here. "To Lucasta on Going to the War — For the Fourth Time" The child alone a poet is: Spring and Fairyland are his. Truth and Reason show but dim, and all 's poetry with him. The child alone a poet is: Spring and Fairyland are his. Truth and Reason show but dim, And all's poetry with him. "Babylon" None of all the magic hosts, none remain but a few ghosts of timorous heart , to linger on weeping for lost Babylon... Wisdom made him old and wary Banishing the Lords of Faery .

Wisdom made a breach and battered Babylon to bits: she scattered To the hedges and ditches All our nursery gnomes and witches. "Babylon". Robin, and Red Riding Hood Take together to the wood, And Sir Galahad lies hid In a cave with Captain Kidd. None of all the magic hosts, None remain but a few ghosts Of timorous heart, to linger on Weeping for lost Babylon. You'll find me buried, living -dead In these verses that you've read . New beginnings and new shoots Spring again from hidden roots Pull or stab or cut or burn, Love must ever yet return. When a dream is born in you With a sudden clamorous pain , When you know the dream is true And lovely , with no flaw nor stain, O then, be careful , or with sudden clutch You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much. "A Pinch of Salt". Poet, never chase the dream. Laugh yourself and turn away. Mask your hunger, let it seem Small matter if he come or stay; But when he nestles in your hand at last, Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast. "A Pinch of Salt".

Through the window I can see Rooks above the cherry-tree, Sparrows in the violet bed, Bramble-bush and bumble-bee, And old red bracken smoulders still Among boulders on the hill, Far too bright to seem quite dead. But old Death, who can't forget, Waits his time and watches yet, Waits and watches by the door. "The Cottage". When I'm killed, don't think of me Buried there in Cambrin Wood, Nor as in Zion think of me With the Intolerable Good. And there's one thing that I know well, I'm damned if I'll be damned to Hell! "When I'm Killed". So when I'm killed, don't wait for me, Walking the dim corridor; In Heaven or Hell, don't wait for me, Or you must wait for evermore. You'll find me buried, living-dead In these verses that you've read. "When I'm Killed" Always get their heart 's desire ... Children born of fairy stock Never need for shirt or frock, Never want for food or fire, Always get their heart's desire... "I'd Love To Be A Fairy's Child".

Every fairy child may keep Two strong ponies and ten sheep; All have houses, each his own, Built of brick or granite stone; They live on cherries, they run wild — I'd love to be a Fairy's child. "I'd Love To Be A Fairy's Child". Another War soon gets begun, A dirtier, a more glorious one; Then, boys, you'll have to play, all in; It's the cruellest team will win. So hold your nose against the stink And never stop too long to think. Wars don't change except in name; The next one must go just the same, And new foul tricks unguessed before Will win and justify this War. "The Next War". Kaisers and Czars will strut the stage Once more with pomp and greed and rage; Courtly ministers will stop At home and fight to the last drop; By the million men will die In some new horrible agony... "The Next War". With a fork drive Nature out, She will ever yet return; Hedge the flowerbed all about, Pull or stab or cut or burn, She will ever yet return. "Marigolds".

New beginnings and new shoots Spring again from hidden roots Pull or stab or cut or burn, Love must ever yet return. "Marigolds". Let Cupid smile and the fiend must flee; Hey and hither, my lad. "Love and Black Magic" Country Sentiment (1920)[ edit ] Now I begin to know at last, these nights when I sit down to rhyme, The form and measure of that vast God we call Poetry , he who stoops and leaps me through his paper hoops a little higher every time . I do not love the Sabbath, The soapsuds and the starch, The troops of solemn people Who to Salvation march. I take my book, I take my stick On the Sabbath day, In woody nooks and valleys I hide myself away. To ponder there in quiet God's Universal Plan, Resolved that church and Sabbath Were never made for man. "The Boy out of Church". Now I begin to know at last, These nights when I sit down to rhyme, The form and measure of that vast God we call Poetry, he who stoops And leaps me through his paper hoops A little higher every time. "The God Called Poetry".

He is older than the seas, Older than the plains and hills, And older than the light that spills From the sun's hot wheel on these. He wakes the gale that tears your trees, He sings to you from window sills. "The God Called Poetry". Riding on the shell and shot. He smites you down, he succours you, And where you seek him, he is not. "The God Called Poetry". He first taught lovers how to kiss, He brings down sunshine after shower, Thunder and hate are his also, He is YES and he is NO. "The God Called Poetry" Then speaking from his double head The glorious fearful monster said "I am YES and I am NO, Black as pitch and white as snow, Love me, hate me, reconcile Hate with love, perfect with vile, So equal justice shall be done And life shared between moon and sun. Nature for you shall curse or smile: A poet you shall be, my son." "The God Called Poetry". Lovers to-day and for all time Preserve the meaning of my rhyme: Love is not kindly nor yet grim But does to you as you to him.

"Advice To Lovers" Down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked King, Stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud. Then all you lovers have good heed Vex not young Love in word or deed: Love never leaves an unpaid debt, He will not pardon nor forget. "Advice To Lovers". Down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked King, Stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud. Out from his changed heart flutter on startled wing The fancy birds of his Pride, Honour, Kinglihood. He crawls, he grunts, he is beast-like, frogs and snails His diet, and grass, and water with hand for cup. He herds with brutes that have hooves and horns and tails, He roars in his anger, he scratches, he looks not up. "Nebuchadnezzar's Fall" Though I am a poor old man Worth very little, At peace in the sun , I do not fret nor much regret That my work is done.

I am an old man With my bones very brittle, Though I am a poor old man Worth very little, Yet I suck at my long pipe At peace in the sun, I do not fret nor much regret That my work is done. "Brittle Bones". If I were a young man And young was my Lily, A smart girl, a bold young man, Both of us silly. And though from time before I knew She'd stab me with pain, Though well I knew she'd not be true, I'd love her again. If I were a young man With my bones full of marrow, Oh, if I were a bold young man Straight as an arrow, I'd store up no virtue For Heaven's distant plain, I'd live at ease as I did please And sin once again. And what of home — how goes it, boys, While we die here in stench and noise? "Country At War" Kill if you must , but never hate : Man is but grass and hate is blight, The sun will scorch you soon or late, Die wholesome then, since you must fight .

Where nature with accustomed round Sweeps and garnishes the ground With kindly beauty, warm or cold — Alternate seasons never old: Heathen, how furiously you rage, Cursing this blood and brimstone age, How furiously against your will You kill and kill again, and kill: All thought of peace behind you cast, Till like small boys with fear aghast, Each cries for God to understand, 'I could not help it, it was my hand.'" "Country At War" Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not, Strike with no madness when you strike. Kill if you must, but never hate: Man is but grass and hate is blight, The sun will scorch you soon or late, Die wholesome then, since you must fight. "Hate Not, Fear Not". Hate is a fear, and fear is rot That cankers root and fruit alike, Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not, Strike with no madness when you strike. "Hate Not, Fear Not". Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys Are here discreetly blent; Admire, you ladies, read, you boys, My Country Sentiment.

Hate and Fear are not wanted here, Nor Toys nor Country Lovers, Everything they took from my new poem book But the flyleaf and the covers. "A First Review" Goodbye to All That (1929)[ edit ] Having now been in the trenches for five months, I had passed my prime. Graves' autobiography is famous for its vivid account of life in the trenches in the First World War (1914–18). James Burford, collier and fitter, was the oldest soldier of all. When I first spoke to him in the trenches, he said: "Excuse me, sir, will you explain what this here arrangement is on the side of my rifle?" "That's the safety catch. Didn't you do a musketry-course at the depôt?" "No, sir, I was a re-enlisted man, and I spent only a fortnight there. The old Lee-Metford didn't have no safety-catch." I asked him when he had last fired a rifle. "In Egypt in 1882 ," he said. "Weren't you in the South African War ?" "I tried to re-enlist, but they told me I was too old, sir...

My real age is sixty-three." Ch.12. I protested: "But all this is childish. Is there a war on here, or isn't there?" "The Royal Welch don't recognize it socially," he answered. Ch.14 Patriotism , in the trenches, was too remote a sentiment, and at once rejected as fit only for civilians, or prisoners . A new arrival who talked patriotism would soon be told to cut it out. Cuinchy bred rats. They came up from the canal, fed on the plentiful corpses, and multiplied exceedingly. While I stayed here with the Welsh , a new officer joined the company... When he turned in that night, he heard a scuffling, shone his torch on the bed, and found two rats on his blanket tussling for the possession of a severed hand. Ch.14. Having now been in the trenches for five months, I had passed my prime. For the first three weeks, an officer was of little use in the front line... Between three weeks and four weeks he was at his best, unless he happened to have any particular bad shock or sequence of shocks. Then his usefulness gradually declined as neurasthenia developed.

At six months he was still more or less all right; but by nine or ten months, unless he had been given a few weeks' rest on a technical course, or in hospital, he usually became a drag on the other company officers. After a year or fifteen months he was often worse than useless. Ch.16 On being in the trenches in France in 1915. There was a daily exchange of courtesies between our machine guns and the Germans' at stand-to; by removing cartridges from the ammunition-belt one could rap out the rhythm of the familiar prostitutes' call: "MEET me DOWN in PICC-a-DILL-y", to which the Germans would reply, though in slower tempo, because our guns were faster than theirs: "YES, with-OUT my DRAWERS ON!" Ch.16. Patriotism, in the trenches, was too remote a sentiment, and at once rejected as fit only for civilians, or prisoners. A new arrival who talked patriotism would soon be told to cut it out. Ch. 17 It would have been difficult to remain religious in the trenches even if one had survived the irreligion of the training battalion at home.

Hardly one soldier in a hundred was inspired by religious feeling of even the crudest kind. It would have been difficult to remain religious in the trenches even if one had survived the irreligion of the training battalion at home. Ch. 17. Anglican chaplains were remarkably out of touch with their troops. The Second Battalion chaplain, just before the Loos fighting, had preached a violent sermon on the Battle against Sin, at which one old soldier behind me had grumbled: "Christ, as if one bloody push wasn't enough to worry about at a time!" Ch. 17. England looked strange to us returned soldiers. We could not understand the war madness that ran about everywhere, looking for a pseudo-military outlet. The civilians talked a foreign language; and it was newspaper language. Ch. 21. "I got shot in the guts at the Beaumont-Hamel show. It hurt like hell, let me tell you. They took me down to the field-hospital. I was busy dying, but a company-sergeant major had got it in the head, and he was busy dying, too; and he did die. Well, as soon as ever the sergeant-major died, they took out that long gut...

and they put it into me, grafted it on somehow. Wonderful chaps, these medicos! … Well, this sergeant-major seems to have been an abstemious man. The lining of the new gut is much better than my old one; so I'm celebrating it. I only wish I'd borrowed his kidneys, too." Ch.21. Opposite our trenches a German salient protruded, and the brigadier wanted to "bite it off" in proof of the division's offensive spirit. Trench soldiers could never understand the Staff's desire to bite off an enemy salient. It was hardly desirable to be fired at from both flanks; if the Germans had got caught in a salient, our obvious duty was to keep them there as long as they could be persuaded to stay. We concluded that a passion for straight lines, for which headquarters were well known, had dictated this plan, which had no strategic or tactical excuse. Ch.22. Nancy and I were married in January 1918 at St. James's Church, Piccadilly, she being just eighteen, and I twenty-two. George Mallory acted as the best man.

Nancy had read the marriage-service for the first time that morning, and been so disgusted that she all but refused to go through with the wedding, though I had arranged for the ceremony to be modified and reduced to the shortest possible form. Another caricature scene to look back on: myself striding up the red carpet, wearing field-boots, spurs and sword; Nancy meeting me in a blue-check silk wedding-dress, utterly furious; packed benches on either side of the church, full of relatives; aunts using handkerchiefs; the choir boys out of tune; Nancy savagely muttering the responses, myself shouting them in a parade-ground voice. Ch. 25. Shells used to come bursting on my bed at midnight, even though Nancy shared it with me; strangers in daytime would assume the faces of friends who had been killed... I could not use a telephone, I felt sick every time I travelled by train, and to see more than two new people in a single day prevented me from sleeping. Ch.26 On being at home in Harlech in 1919.

During the First World War, the mental effects of war on the fighting men were called shell shock or neurasthenia — or dismissed altogether as cowardice. Graves describes very clearly symptoms of what would now be seen as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder . In the middle of a lecture I would have a sudden very clear experience of men on the march up the Béthune –La Bassée road; the men would be singing... These daydreams persisted like an alternate life and did not leave me until well in 1928. The scenes were nearly always recollections of my first four months in France; the emotion-recording apparatus seems to have failed after Loos . Ch. 27 On studying at Oxford University in 1919. At the end of my first term's work, I attended the usual college board to give an account of myself. The spokesman coughed, and said a little stiffly: "I understand, Mr. Graves, that the essays which you write for your English tutor are, shall I say, a trifle temperamental. It appears, indeed, that you prefer some authors to others." Ch. 27.

Professor Edgeworth, of All Souls', avoided conversational English, persistently using words and phrases that one expects to meet only in books. One evening, Lawrence returned from a visit to London, and Edgeworth met him at the gate. "Was it very caliginous in the metropolis?" "Somewhat caliginous, but not altogether inspissated," Lawrence replied gravely. Ch. 28.

I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus … am now about to write this strange history of my life … I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus … this, that and the other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles), who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as ‘Claudius the [[Idiot]’, or ‘That Claudius’, or ‘Claudius the Stammerer’, or ‘Clau-Clau-Claudius’, or at best as ‘Poor Uncle Claudius’, am now about to write this strange history of my life ; starting from my earliest childhood and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the ‘golden predicament’ from which I have never since become disentangled. Ch. 1. My tutor I have already mentioned, Marcus Porcius Cato who was, in his own estimation at least, a living embodiment of that ancient Roman virtue which his ancestors had one after the other shown.

He was always boasting of his ancestors , as stupid people do who are aware that they have done nothing themselves to boast about. He boasted particularly of Cato the Censor, who of all characters in Roman history is to me perhaps the most hateful, as having persistently championed the cause of "ancient virtue" and made it identical in the popular mind with churlishness, pedantry and harshness. Ch. 5. Athenodorus used to stroke his beard slowly and rhythmically as he talked, and told me once that it was this that made it grow so luxuriantly. He said that invisible seeds of fire streamed off from his fingers, which were food for the hairs. This was a typical Stoic joke at the expense of Epicurean speculative philosophy. Ch. 5. Postumus was clever: he guessed that this would make Cato angry enough to forget himself. And Cato rose to the bait, shouting out with a string of old-fashioned curses that in the days of his ancestor, whose memory this stammering imp was insulting, woe betide any child who failed in reverence to his elders ; for they dealt out discipline with a heavy hand in those days.

Whereas in these degenerate times the leading men of Rome gave any ignorant oafish lout (this was for Postumus) or any feeble-minded decrepit-limbed little whippersnapper (this was for me) full permission— Postumus interrupted with a warning smile: "So I was right. The degenerate Augustus insults the great Censor by employing you in his degenerate family. I suppose you have told the Lady Livia just how you feel about things?" Ch. 5. The frog-pool wanted a king. Jove sent them Old King Log. I have been as deaf and blind and wooden as a log. The frog-pool wanted a king. Let Jove now send them Young King Stork. Caligula's chief fault: his stork-reign was too brief. My chief fault: I have been far too benevolent. I repaired the ruin my predecessors spread. I reconciled Rome and the world to monarchy again. Rome is fated to bow to another Caesar. Let him be mad, bloody, capricious, wasteful, lustful. King Stork shall prove again the nature of kings. By dulling the blade of tyranny I fell into great error.

By whetting the same blade I might redeem that error. Violent disorders call for violent remedies. Yet I am, I must remember, Old King Log. I shall float inertly in the stagnant pool. Let all the poisons that lurk in the mud hatch out. Ch. 30. Robert Graves - History Learning Site Robert Graves Citation: C N Trueman "Robert Graves" historylearningsite.co.uk. The History Learning Site, 17 Apr 2015. 16 Aug 2016. Robert Graves became one of the foremost poets of World War One. Graves went on to achieve even greater fame not through his poetry but as a result of his book about his war times experiences “Goodbye To All That”. Along with Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brookes, Robert Graves is considered to have been one of the few poets who were capable of putting onto paper the sheer horror of trench warfare. Robert Graves was born on July 28th 1895. His father, ‘A P’, was from Irish stock while his mother, Amalia (Amy), had a German family.

Whereas his father was seen as being witty, light-hearted and amenable, his mother was very serious and viewed by those who knew her as lacking a sense of humour. After a series of prep schools, Graves went to Charterhouse. While at this school, Graves became very influenced by a teacher there called George Mallory – the man who died in 1924 in his ascent of Mount Everest. Mallory imparted in Graves a love of literature, and poetry in particular. Graves wrote poetry for the school magazine, which he later co-edited. Graves won a classical exhibition to St. John’s College, Oxford University. In his spare time he developed his poetry or, encouraged by Mallory, he developed a keen interest in climbing and mountaineering. In 1914, when war was declared, Graves gained a commission in the Royal Welch Fusiliers – using his time in the Charterhouse OTC to justify this. His war experience started by looking after interned aliens at a camp in Lancaster. Though Graves wanted to go to France, his commanding officer believed that he was not yet of the right calibre to embark on such a journey having only recently come out of school.

A boxing match against a hardened NCO convinced his c/o that Graves was, perhaps, now ready for war. However, he was not sent until May 1915 and he served with the 2nd Welsh Regiment. Graves commanded a platoon of forty men. According to the stories told in ‘Goodbye To All That’, one of his men was a 63 years old survivor of the Boer War while several were boy soldiers aged 15. In July 1915, Graves was sent to join the Royal Welch Fusiliers at Laventie. While here, he recorded in his book that the officers in the RWF failed to take the war seriously and saw that to them it was far more important to keep up regimental traditions. These traditions Graves referred to as “childish”. The first real war experience that Graves had was at the Battle of Loos. What Graves referred to as a “bloody balls-up” resulted in only five company officers from the RWF surviving. The poem ‘The Dead Fox Hunter, In Memory of Captain L. Samson’ was written about this battle. In November 1915 Graves met Siegfried Sassoon at Locon, north of Cambrin.

Sassoon was to write about Graves in ‘Memoirs of an Infantry Soldier’ where he appeared as David Cromlech – a man who believed everyone should know his opinion and whose appearance was ‘deplorably untidy’. Despite writing that Cromlech would grow up into a “bumptious young prig”, Sassoon greatly respected Graves. While at the front they tried to forget about the war by discussing literature, especially poetry. After leave when he spent time in the hills around Harlech, Graves returned to France on June 27th 1916 with the rank of captain. He arrived too late to be involved in the first days of the Battle of the Somme. In the second week of July he moved in to the Somme battlefield – near to Mametz Wood where the 38th Welsh Division had suffered many casualties. He had to camp near to where many bodies still lay on the battlefield – “a certain cure for the lust of blood”. On July 19th, Graves was severely injured at High Wood when a German shell exploded and fragments from it hit Graves in the chest.

Graves was, in fact, given up for dead and he survived being buried as a war casualty when he was seen breathing while being carried to his burial. His parents even received a letter informing them of his death – one day after receiving a letter from Graves himself informing them that he was recovering from his wounds. The whole incident is recalled in the poem “Escape”. The wounds Graves received at High Wood did a great deal to test his nerves. Graves was pronounced as being unfit for duty and was given time on leave. He was sent to Oxford University where he worked as an instructor in the University Officer Training Battalion. During this time he met up with Sassoon just as the latter was publishing his “Wilful Defiance”. Graves used his contacts in the RWF to ensure that Sassoon was treated as someone with what would now be referred to as post-traumatic stress disorder. Had Graves not done this, Sassoon could have been in very serious trouble and could have faced a court martial. While Graves is best known for “Goodbye To All That”, he also wrote poetry that showed very clearly his close association to the men he led – and to those who died.

In 1916, he had published “Over the Brazier” and in the following year “Fairies and Fusiliers”. After the war Graves effectively ignored these works. Post-war, Graves found fame for his autobiography and for ‘I Claudius’ and ‘Claudius the God’. Goodbye to All That by Robert Graves · OverDrive: eBooks, audiobooks and videos for libraries Biography & Autobiography Nonfiction In 1929 Robert Graves went to live abroad permanently, vowing 'never to make England my home again'. This is his superb account of his life up until that 'bitter leave-taking': from his childhood and desperately unhappy school days at Charterhouse, to his time serving as a young officer in the First World War that was to haunt him throughout his life. It also contains memorable encounters with fellow writers and poets, including Siegfried Sassoon and Thomas Hardy, and covers his increasingly unhappy marriage to Nancy Nicholson. Goodbye to All That, with its vivid, harrowing descriptions of the Western Front, is a classic war document, and also has immense value as one of the most candid self-portraits of an artist ever written.

Canada, Australia, United Kingdom, Thailand Format Adobe EPUB eBook 2.4 MB Robert Graves (Author) Robert Graves was born in 1895 in Wimbledon. He went from school to the First World War, where he became a captain in the Royal Welch Fusiliers and was seriously wounded at the Battle of the Somme. He wrote his autobiography, Goodbye to All That, ...

Question: Which war is the setting for 'Goodbye To All That' by Robert Graves?
Answer: WORLD WAR I