THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE
KAREN ARMSTRONG
William Collins
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
This edition published by HarperPress 2005
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2004
Copyright © Karen Armstrong 2004
Karen Armstrong asserts the moral right to be
identified as the author of this work
PS Section copyright © Georgina Laycock 2005
Grateful acknowledgement is made to the Estate of
T. S. Eliot and Faber & Faber Ltd, for permission to reprint an excerpt from the poem ‘Ash-Wednesday’, from Collected Poems, 1909–1962 by T. S. Eliot.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007122295
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2016 ISBN 9780007372720 Version: 2017-03-23
From the reviews of The Spiral Staircase:
‘A book full of riches’
MICHÈLE ROBERTS, Literary Review
‘Unputdownable – absorbing, moving and hopeful’
Daily Mail
‘Her prose is admirably lucid … She writes with great insight and clarity about shifting states of mind and of feeling and about the evolution of thought, and she gives a more exact and vivid account of the pleasures of writing than any I have come across in a literary biography’
LUCY HUGHES-HALLETT, Sunday Times
‘Open, accessible, writing without jargon or denominational loyalty, Armstrong manages to put into words something that most of us cannot express … She tells a good tale at her own expense. She recounts the challenges she faced on her journey with amusement, a good ear for dialogue and an absence of self-pity or piety’
New Statesman
‘This terrifically readable book … is a fine testament to how the effort to escape self-pity and sustain the spirit in adversity is itself richly creative and can reward’
SALLEY VICKERS, Spectator
‘Written with enormous charm and elegance … If you are mystified as to why religion, which you thought was all but dead and buried, has bounced back with such alarming impact on to the human scene, then Karen Armstrong is probably your best guide’
Scotsman
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour Because I do not think Because I know I shall not know The one veritable transitory power Because I cannot drink There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessèd face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And I pray that I may forget These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done, not to be done again May the judgement not be too heavy upon us Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
T. S. ELIOT
Ash-Wednesday, I.
CONTENTS