Hunting for happiness

Patrick Hamilton is honoured with a blue plaque.

The novelist and playwright Patrick Hamilton, who died in 1962 aged 58, was commemorated by an English Heritage blue plaque last Saturday, installed at his birthplace in Chiswick. Best known for Hangover Square and the play Rope, later adapted for the cinema by Alfred Hitchcock, Hamilton is nevertheless largely overlooked, for many years shoved to the margins of the established literary canon.

Yet Hamilton wrote masterfully about London's "shabby genteel" in the inter-war years - depicting the quietly desperate, doomed lives of alcoholics and whores in grimy corners of the city, where greed and manipulation are masked by a drink-soaked camaraderie.

Hamilton had an ambiguous view of the city he so often depicted, a complicated mixture of fascination and repulsion. Late in life, he observed in his unfinished novel The Happy Hunting Ground that "London's a place where you're forever hunting for happiness - and even if you find it it's soon taken away from you".

The plaque at least offers a permanent memorial for a writer so preoccupied with unnoticed lives slipping away into a kind of terminal misery and whose own life, before his early death, was somewhat shambolic.

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On Wheels

A new poem by Patrick Mackie

The hills swarm and soften towards the end of the day just as
flames do in a fireplace as the evening
loosens and breaks open and lets out night.
A nasty, grotesque, impatient year ended,
and the new one will be bitter,
tired, opaque. Words wrangle in every inch of air,
their mouths wide open in stupid shock
at what they have just heard every time they hear anything. Venus,
though, blazes with heavy wobbles of albeit frozen
light. Brecht, who I like to call my
brother just as he called Shelley his,
has a short late poem where he sits by a roadside, waiting
while someone changes the wheel on his car,
watching with impatience, despite not liking
either the place that he is coming from or
the place that he is going to. We call it
connectivity when in truth it is just aggression
and imitation writ ever larger. Poems, though,
are forms of infinite and wry but also briskly
impatient patience. Brecht’s poem seems to end,
for instance, almost before you
can read it. It wheels. The goddess is just a big, bright
wilderness but then soon enough she clothes
herself again in the openness of night and I lose her.

Patrick Mackie’s latest collection, The Further Adventures Of The Lives Of The Saints, is published by CB Editions.

This article first appeared in the 18 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Age of Lies

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