Grevel Lindop

Poet, biographer, critic, essayist and writer on just about everything


Ever since I began writing Charles Williams: The Third Inkling, people have been asking me ‘Who was Charles Williams?’

Well, I wrote the biography to make him better known, so the question is fine with me. It’s exactly what I want people to ask.

As my title suggests, he was one of the group of Oxford writers known as the Inklings – the other most important members being C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Owen Barfield. Charles Williams attended the group regularly during World War Two, when his workplace – the London office of Oxford University Press – was evacuated to Oxford to avoid the bombing.

But Williams was more than that. He was, I believe, a major poet, with a brilliant sequence of poems on the Arthurian legends. In fact he was the major English Arthurian poet of the twentieth century.


He was also a pioneering author of supernatural fiction. His seven novels, cast as thrillers but with serious messages, all concern the breaking through of the spiritual dimension into daily life in extreme ways – demonstrating that, as TS Eliot said, for Williams ‘there was no barrier between the spiritual and material worlds’.

Williams was both an influential Anglican theologian and deeply involved in the occult – a member of a secret Rosicrucian fraternity, The Fellowship of the Rosy Cross, and in contact with magicians of the Stella Matutina, an occult group descended from the more famous Order of the Golden Dawn.

Lindop.22.jpgLess dramatic but also important is the fact that Williams was an influential publisher. He worked his way up from humble proof reader to senior editor at OUP, running the World’s Classics series and the Oxford Standard Authors. As such, he more or less decided which books would be regarded as classics by the reading public, and had a huge effect on public taste. And he pushed ahead the project of publishing the Danish philosopher/theologian Søren Kierkegaard in English, at a time when Kierkegaard was unknown in Britain and America.

As a hugely popular and charismatic lecturer at Oxford during the war – a job he did alongside his publishing work – he inspired a whole generation of future teachers, and poets including Philip Larkin, Sidney Keyes, John Heath-Stubbs and Kingsley Amis.

In my biography I explore all these areas but also take the reader into the secret world of Williams’s occult rituals and magical activities, and his intense and complicated love-life, which was also wrapped up with the bizarre practises arising from his involvement with magic.

I hope you will enjoy Charles Williams: The Third Inkling and find it as exciting to read as I did to research and write. It’s a dramatic story full of new information, much of it from interviews with people who knew Wiliams, or from archives never before opened to scholars. If you’d like to buy the book at 20% discount, just go to and use the code TREVNT14 at the checkout.

Otherwise just click on the poanel at top right on this page and it will take you straight to Amazon, where you can order it for immediate delivery.


Three Books for 2015


By sheer chance, I have three books coming out in the coming months: two new ones, and one fully revised and updated. It wasn’t planned that way, but that’s how the timing has worked out.

I’ll be giving talks and readings related to all of them this autumn: once I have full details I’ll post a new ‘Readings and Talks’ page with times, places and other details.

In August, Sigma Press is bringing out the 3rd edition of my Literary Guide to the Lake District. The book, which won Lakeland Book of the Year award when first published, is a comprehensive guide to where authors have lived or stayed and what they have written about the Lakes from ancient times up to the present.

Besides thorough coverage of places connected with Wordsworth, Coleridge, Beatrix Potter, Arthur Ransome and all the usual suspects, it deals with the Lakeland places visited by D.H. Lawrence, Thomas Hardy, Edward Thomas and countless other poets, novelists and writers. Plentifully illustrated, and with maps, it’s geographically arranged by area so you can follow its routes, or browse in it as you travel. Or just enjoy it as armchair tourism!

For this new edition I’ve re-checked the routes, added new material and rather than try to give opening times I’ve added the web addresses of places open to the public. I’m proud that the book on first appearance was described by Melvyn Bragg as ‘a treat’ and ‘a book-lover’s feast’. I think the new edition presents it in its best shape ever. I’ll put ordering details here as soon as I have them: design has been finalised and proofs returned but I see Sigma haven’t got the book in their online catalogue yet. Maybe there’s a delay? Updates as soon as I have them!


In October, OUP are publishing my biography Charles Williams: The Third Inkling. as there’s a lot of information about the book on the web already, I’ll just quote from the publisher’s description of the book:

Novelist, poet, theologian, magician, and guru, Charles Williams was an extraordinary and controversial figure who was a central member of the Inklings – the group of Oxford writers that included C.S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien.

Williams was the strangest, most multitalented, and most controversial member of the group, and his friends and admirers included T. S. Eliot, W. H. Auden, Dylan Thomas, and the young Philip Larkin. This biography draws on a wealth of documents, letters and private papers, many never before opened to researchers, and on more than twenty interviews with people who knew Williams. It vividly recreates the bizarre and dramatic life of this strange, uneasy genius, of whom Eliot wrote: ‘For him there was no frontier between the material and the spiritual world.’ The book also sheds light on the characters of the period, and adds surprising new dimensions to our knowledge of the Inklings.”

9781857549874img01[1] (2)

And in November, Carcanet Press are publishing my collection of poems, Luna Park. This collects my poems from the past seven years or so, together with a prose essay about my visit to the extraordinary city of New Orleans, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Here’s an outline of the book:

“Drawing on themes of magic, dreams and the nocturnal, Grevel Lindop’s new collection of poems ranges in subject from the hidden histories of words to the folklore of yew trees, and in place from a haunted English library to a derelict Australian funfair and the streets of Mexico City. Including ‘Shugborough Eclogues’, a twenty-first century take on the country-house pastoral, and sequences on the darker and brighter aspects of love, Luna Park deploys an original viewpoint as well as a wide range of traditional and modernist skills in verse. The book ends with ‘Hurricane Music’, Lindop’s prose memoir of a visit to New Orleans in the aftermath.”




Charles Williams, poet and critic (1886-1945)

Professor Sir Geoffrey Hill framed his valedictory lecture as Oxford Professor of Poetry earlier this month with a discussion of Charles Williams’s 1930 book, Poetry at Present – a fascinating choice because, to me at least, this is the weakest of Williams’s three critical books. Nonetheless Hill managed to fasten on a brief passage about the nature of poetry which he then used as a standard for judging poems, and applied it to the work of Larkin, Edward Thomas and others.

I was delighted – and not merely because he recognised Williams’s brilliant critical acumen, which has been overlooked for so long – but also because he raised doubts about the quality of several of Larkin’s poems, as I have done recently (though with reference to different Larkin poems) in the journal PN Review, in a discussion of James Booth’s recent biography. I’m sure Larkin is currently overrated, good though some of his poems are, and it’s encouraging to find Hill taking the same view.

images[1] (3)The lecture is well worth listening to: it winds around and you may think he is rambling, but in fact it all turns out to be very cogent, and his final point is impressive and even devastating. After coming back to Williams, and the perceptive quotation from which he began, Hill quotes the choreographer Mark Morris as saying ‘I’m not interested in self-expression but in expressiveness’. He’s absolutely right.

If you’d like to listen to a podcast of the lecture, just click on this link (from the Oxford English Faculty page)  here.

Lance Cousins (1942-2015)

Today I must pay tribute to my dear friend and teacher, Lance Cousins, who died in Oxford on 14 March.


Lance Cousins (foreground) with his teacher, Nai Boonman (behind)

Lance was the most remarkable person I’ve ever met. A Buddhist scholar and meditation teacher, he was an unforgettable character and a constant source of amazement, amusement, wisdom and inspiration. Think of Gandalf in a green jumper with a mug of coffee in his hand and you will have some idea.

I first met Lance when I joined the Manchester University Buddhist Society in 1975, soon after arriving to work at the University. I had noticed him before I knew who he was: a quiet, bearded chap who came into the senior common room looking very alert and moving quietly: there was something cat-like in the way he padded about.

Once I joined the Society I realised that he was its motivator: he had taught Charles Shaw, who was my own first teacher in meditation, and Lance himself came to all the Society’s weekly talks by visiting speakers, and afterwards would join in fascinating discussions which ranged far and wide, on all kinds of things, philosophical and personal. He was ready with apposite, amusingly-expressed advice for anyone who had a problem but he could also quote from the ancient texts.

He also became the focus of a group of friendly academics who would spend hours in the Common Room debating everything in the world over coffee: a group of true philosophers that tended to include Harry Lesser, John Kane, Philip Alexander, Tony James, Norman Calder and others. The flow of ideas, questions, knowledge and humour was marvellous.

Over the years that followed I came to know Lance as an incomparable teacher. The meditation he taught, the stimulus of his teaching, and the example of his presence completely changed my life and gave it a new focus.

He was mainly a teacher of Samatha, a traditional method of meditation using the in-and-out breath as an object, which he had learned from his own Thai teacher, Nai Boonman. But he was far from limiting himself to ‘Buddhism by the Book’: he’d been trained in the Gurdjieff-Ouspensky tradition; he was an expert astrologer who drew up a birth chart for me and many others; he knew a great deal about the Kabbala and encouraged his meditation students to learn about that as well. He was also very well-read, and could discuss almost any author in English literature and, of course, most fantasy and science fiction of which he read a great deal (and I believe wrote some himself).

In due course, as well as supporting and stimulating the Manchester University Buddhist Society, Lance was the main mover in establishing the Samatha Centre (later the Manchester Centre for Buddhist Meditation) in Chorlton, and then, with other senior teachers and Trustees, the national Samatha Centre, Greenstreete, in the Welsh Borders.

At the same time he ran study groups of Buddhist texts either at his house or at the Centre, and these meetings, often going on until well after midnight, were endlessly illuminating. Lance had a fresh, humorous and profound angle on everything, and he would also listen carefully and give full attention to what others had to say. In fact he insisted that others had their say! Of course we didn’t always agree, and at times I found him infuriating! All part of the fun and the learning process.

He moved to Oxford some twenty years ago and after that I saw less of him but whenever I visited we would have long and happy chats about all sorts of things, and I would always get wise insight into whatever problem, difficulty or stage of life I might be going through. Lance’s kindness and learning increased over the years and somehow he seemed to grow older, not just physically, but in wisdom as well. It was as if he’d started off six years older than me but ended twenty-six years older. Spiritually I have to say that he was my father. I will never meet anyone like him, and it is daunting to realise that now he is gone and we must do what we can to go on with the work, or some aspect of it, without him.

There are no words to express my gratitude and I know hundreds of others feel the same.

This is a rough and hasty tribute but the best I can manage at present. For more information, photos and tributtes, go to



Ashenden: Fiction’s First Modern Spy

I was just taking a copy of The Spy Who Came in From the Cold off the shelf in Blackwell’s the other day – determined to read all of John le Carré’s Smiley books in sequence – when I had a better idea.

Why not go right to the roots of the genre, and read W. Somerset Maugham’s Ashenden stories? I’d often heard that this was where realistic spy fiction started, and here was the place to find out. So I went upstairs to where they keep the pre-1960 fiction, and found when I was after: the Vintage paperback of Maugham’s 1928 story collection, Ashenden.


“Maugham facing camera” by Tucker Collection – New York Public Library Archives. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

Maugham was employed by the British secret service in Switzerland and elsewhere during the First World War, so he knew what he was writing about. The stories have, in an intriguing and gently realistic period setting, all the things we’ve grown used to from le Carré’s novels: double agents, betrayals, mistakes, blackmail, cold-blooded murder (sometimes of what turns out to have been the wrong person), and a spymaster known only by an initial: Ashenden takes his orders from a military intelligence officer known as ‘R’.

Not all the stories are full of suspense. Some are gently humorous; some leave lots of loose ends, or twist off into directions completely unforeseen, which all fits perfectly with the quietly insane world of espionage, where nobody is what they seem and nobody is quite sure where things are going or whether actions are wise or foolish.

The final story in the book contains a wonderfully convincing account of Russia in October and November 1917 at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution: no heroics, no grand scene-painting, just food shortages, confusion, soldiers shooting at random on the streets, and Ashenden accepting that whatever he was supposed to be doing in Moscow is now totally irrelevant and the best he can hope for is a coded message telling him to return home before the borders are closed.

It struck me that there might be a good book to be written about that time in Russia when Arthur Ransome, Hugh Walpole, John Reed and (if the story is from experience, as it appears) Maugham himself were all in Russia, working for Press and/or Intelligence and helplessly caught up in revolutionary chaos. Maybe someone out there would like to write it?

And while we’re digressing, as I read Ashenden I couldn’t help finding something about the style and approach a little familar. I realised that I was being reminded of Borges’s story ‘The Garden of Forking Paths’. I wouldn’t mind betting that Borges had read Maugham’s stories and was using them as a model – though of course his tale is far more fantastic.

Anyway, if you like spy fiction and want a good, intelligent but undemanding, fascinating and well-written period-piece, I can’t recommend anything better than Ashenden. I’m delighted to make his acquaintance.