The Tyger

I’ve just finished reading Peter Aykroyd’s biography of William Blake.

I read Aykroyd’s biography of London a few years ago and thought it was a thoroughly wonderful book which was both well-researched and very entertainingly written. And as William Blake is one of my favourite poets I’m amazed it’s taken me this long to get round to actually reading it.

But it’s a familiar lament in our household (from both myself and the missus) that there are so many great books to enjoy and so little time – and people still insist on buying the bloody Da Vinci Code…

The Blake book is a wonderful achievement, capturing both the complexity of the poet and artist as a person and evocatively recording the world in which he lived.

Although a highly skilled commercial engraver, Blake lived in relative poverty most of his life and was rarely recognised for his work as a poet in his own lifetime. But he kept working on his poems and various works of art as he always believed he was working for posterity.

I was nearly in tears on the Tube as I read the chapter describing his death. Basically it’s bloody brilliant and I’m now sorely tempted by the rest of the Aykroyd ouvre…