Soliloquies of a Hermit

by T.F. Powys

This is a pre-1923 historical reproduction that was curated for quality. Quality assurance was conducted on each of these books in an attempt to remove books with imperfections introduced by the digitization process. Though we have made best efforts - the books may have occasional errors that do not impede the reading experience. We believe this work is culturally important and have elected to bring the book back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide.

160 pages, Paperback

First published December 1, 1975

About the author

Theodore Francis Powys, published as T. F. Powys, was born in Shirley, Derbyshire, the son of the Reverend Charles Francis Powys (1843–1923), vicar of Montacute, Somerset, for 32 years, and Mary Cowper Johnson, grand-daughter of Dr John Johnson, cousin and close friend of the poet William Cowper. He was one of eleven talented siblings, including the novelist John Cowper Powys (1872–1963) and the novelist and essayist Llewelyn Powys (1884–1939).
A sensitive child, Powys was not happy in school and left when he was 15 to become an apprentice on a farm in Suffolk. Later he had his own farm in Suffolk, but he was not successful and returned to Dorset in 1901 with plans to be a writer. Then, in 1905, he married Violet Dodd. They had two sons and later adopted a daughter. From 1904 until 1940 Theodore Powys lived in East Chaldon but then moved to Mappowder because of the war.
During the Spanish Civil War (1936–39), Powys was one of several UK writers who campaigned for aid to be sent to the Republican side.
Powys was deeply, if unconventionally, religious; the Bible was a major influence, and he had a special affinity with writers of the 17th and 18th centuries, including John Bunyan, Miguel de Cervantes, Jeremy Taylor, Jonathan Swift, and Henry Fielding. Among more recent writers, he admired Thomas Hardy, Sigmund Freud, and Friedrich Nietzsche.
He died on 27 November 1953 in Mappowder, Dorset, where he was buried. [from wikipedia, adapted]

Reviews

[Heidi · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book is bizarre, but I really like it. It's the rarified ramblings of an Anglican parish priest from the turn of the twentieth century. T. F. Powys, who was a recluse (but also married, with children). He complains about his neighbors, goes off on tangents, laments his sins and his depression, and says beautiful things about creation, God, and Jesus. He's not pious but poetic, not dogmatic but philosophical. Wikipedia calls him, "deeply, but unconventionally, religious." He's also an old curmudgeon. There's a photo of him on the flyleaf. It feels like you're reading his diary - or the diary of a contemporary Episcopal priest, or any parish pastor today. Some of his lines made me laugh out loud, like (here, referring to things his neighbors nag him about): "I wonder whether if in America a disciple of the god Pan is allowed to mend his garden railings with string, or is he badgered to use nails? One day it will happen that everyone will be forced to live exactly as his dullest neighbour wishes him to, and we shall be compelled to eat meat every day and to earn the money to pay for it" (p. 15). Weird, but hilarious. And beautiful, "I like to light a fire, and to smell the smoke of burning and to feel the first warmth that comes when the sticks burn. I love the sun; and if I were to worship an Idol, I would certainly worship a star; and when I dig in the garden I like to turn my face to the sun" (p. 21). Random, but rather lovely.

"[Jesus'] way ends our old lives in a moment; because if you take away our anger, our greed, our hatred, our eating the black man, our biting the white woman, our sermon-preaching, our amusements with young ladies, our walking to church, our throat-cutting, our afternoon tea parties and all the tools we have made for killing other people... you will leave no man at all." (p. 113)

[Richard S · Rating 2 out of 5]

Classic example of religious feeling without religion, a book about the “moods” of God and a sort of religious oddness of the writer. T.F. Powys can write nothing coherent, although this makes an intriguing explicatory companion to his excellent fables/ short stories. He notes in Soliloquy that some of it makes him sound like a devout Christian, and some like a heretic, which is exactly the effect of his short stories. So what is going on in his head?

JC Powys said about his brother TF that TF “thought he was God” and maybe that’s the message here. Here’s what happens when you think you are God. But I think it’s more the confused ramblings of a very particular and unique sensibility, perhaps of value to others with that same sensibility. Surely this book could have great value to someone else with a similar “religious experience”.

So if you experience these “moods of God” that he describes the book may have personal value, but other than as a somewhat disappointing companion to his other work I just don’t see anything in here. The overarching thought in my head was “Some people really need to get to the city,” and TF Powys never did but once and never returned again.

[Bob Adamcik · Rating 5 out of 5]

As with all books, whether you find one useful or insightful depends on what you are looking for. I found Powys' book extremely interesting, even though understanding it took a good bit of background research and three reads.

First, note the book has been published as "Soliloquies of a Hermit" (apparently in its original title in Britain) and "The Soliloquy of a Hermit" (on later publication in the U.S.). Just to avoid confusion.

Next, the key to understanding the book is to realize Powys ”priest," as he calls himself in the book, is a metaphor. He's not a real priest, but an "awake" individual who sees the world differently from those around him.

I highly recommend the book, but if you'd like a more thorough review, please see my post here: http://thesentienttraveler.com/on-t-f...

[Zachary Mays · Rating 2 out of 5]

A highly idiosyncratic and at times frustrating read. There are several beautiful passages describing solitary rural life. There are even a few wise and deep passages about human vanity, the violent movements of cosmic history, and about that Stranger, Christ. But the work does not, to my tastes, amount to an aesthetically pleasing or enjoyable whole, and I could not find a great amount of spiritual nourishment from its melancholy theological musing, full of the moods of God. My advice would be to read Mr Weston’s Good Wine instead. The themes there, which are perhaps not so different from the themes here, are expressed with a subtler art, and I think fiction and fable is a better place for them and for the ever-changing God of Powys' philosophy. Interesting for me mostly as a footnote to Powys' fiction.

[Matthew · Rating 3 out of 5]

The first half is nicely dense with lots of "get off my lawn" attitude, but the second half is too Christ-y for me.