John Ruskin, one of the greatest writers and thinkers of the nineteenth century, was also one of the most prolific. Not only did he publish some 250 works, but he also wrote lectures, diaries, and thousands of letters that have not been published. This book―the second and final volume of Tim Hilton’s acclaimed biography of Ruskin, which is published on the centenary of Ruskin’s death―draws on the original source material to give a moving account of the life of this brilliant and creative man.
The book begins in 1859, when Ruskin, a famous author with a disastrous marriage behind him, is living with his parents, writing and traveling, and tutoring―among other pupils―Rose La Touche, a girl of ten, with whom he slowly falls in love. Hilton recounts how this relationship developed into one of the saddest love affairs of literary history, ending in tragedy in 1875. Thereafter, says Hilton, Ruskin’s life was punctuated by bouts of insanity and despair that culminated in total breakdown for the last ten years of his life. During these years, however, his intellect and imagination reached new heights, as he produced Praeterita and most of Fors Clavigera, the series of monthly letters to British workers. Hilton’s magisterial narrative follows Ruskin through this period and shows that he was the most eloquent and radical of all the great Victorian writers.
I thought that I wanted to know what it was like to be Joan Severn at Brantwood and to know what it was like to be Rose La Touche, and Rose La Touche's mother, and crazy John Ruskin loving and not seeing and wanting to see and truly better off NOT seeing Rose La Touche. I felt like there couldn't possibly be too much information about this demented and dementing love affair for me, that I wanted to know every detail, hour to hour, day to day. Somehow--and I don't know how Tim Hilton did it, how he didn't absolutely kill himself finding and synthesizing all of these sources and anecdotes, from the valet to the station master--but SOMEHOW Tim Hilton has written a biography so comprehensive, so exhaustive, so excruciatingly, vividly documented that I feel he has tattooed it on my flesh. I don't think I have ever felt the same mix of admiration, revulsion, pity, and confusion for a man--Ruskin, I mean--in all my reading life. Is that a recommendation? I suppose not. But I think that if you want to know what was up with Ruskin and his weird comments about girls and his towering reputation and his heartbreakingly beautiful watercolors, this is the guide for you.
This morning, John Ruskin (1819-1900) English author and art critic, went into his garden very early ....
He was born in London. His "Modern Painters" in 5 volumes was issued over a period of many years. He helped to establish the Pre-Raphealites. Other notable works include "The Seven Lamps of Architecture", "The Stones of Venice" and "Praeterita". "Unto His Last" develops his views on social problems, and he tried to use his wealth for education. Ruskin College at Oxford is named after him.
"I went into my garden at half-past six on the morning of April 21, 1870, to think over the final order of these examples for you. The air was perfectly calm, the sunlight pure, and falling on the grass through thickets of the standard peach (which had bloomed that year perfectly), and of plum and pear trees, in their first showers of fresh silver, looking more like much-broken and far-tossed spray of fountains than trees; and just at the end of my hawthorn walk, one happy nightingale was singing as much as he could in every moment.
Meantime, in the still air, the roar of the railroads from Clapham Junction, New Cross, and the Crystal Palace (I am between the three), sounded constantly and heavily, like the surf of a strong sea three or four miles distant; and the whistles of the trains passing nearer mixed with the nightingale’s notes. That I could hear her at all, or see the blossoms, or the grass, in the best time of spring, depended on my having been long able to spend a large sum annually in self-indulgence, and in keeping my fellow creatures out of my way.
Of those who were causing all that murmur, like the sea, round me, and of the myriads imprisoned by the English Minotaur of lust for wealth, and condemned to live, if it is to be called life, in the labyrinth of black walls, and loathsome passages between them, which now fills the valley of the Thames, and is called London, no tone could hear, that day, any happy bird sing, or look upon any quiet space of the pure grass that is good for seed ..."