Nature Cure by Richard Mabey (English) Paperback Book

Description: Nature Cure by Richard Mabey Britains greatest living nature writer The TimesRediscover the extraodinary power of nature and the British wilderness, from award-winning naturalist and author Richard MabeyIn the last year of the old millennium, Richard Mabey, Britains foremost nature writer, fell into a severe depression. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description Britains greatest living nature writer (The Times) describes how he conquered clinical depression through his re-awakened love of nature.Britains greatest living nature writer The TimesRediscover the extraodinary power of nature and the British wilderness, from award-winning naturalist and author Richard MabeyIn the last year of the old millennium, Richard Mabey, Britains foremost nature writer, fell into a severe depression. The natural world - which since childhood had been a source of joy and inspiration for him - became meaningless.Then, cared for by friends, he moved to East Anglia and he started to write again. Having left the cosseting woods of the Chiltern hills for the open flatlands of Norfolk, Richard Mabey found exhilaration in discovering a whole new landscape and gained fresh insights into our place in nature.Structured as intricately as a novel, a joy to read, truthful, exquisite and questing, Nature Cure is a book of hope, not just for individuals, but for our species.A brilliant, candid and heartfelt memoir...how he broke free of depression, reshaped his life and reconnected with the wild becomes nothing short of a manifesto for living...Mabeys particular vision, informed by a lifetimes reading and observation, is ultimately optimistic Sunday Times Notes Britains greatest living nature writer (The Times) describes how he conquered clinical depression through his re-awakened love of nature. Author Biography Richard Mabey is the father of modern nature writing in the UK. Since 1972 he has written some forty influential books, including the prize-winning Nature Cure, Gilbert White- a Biography, and Flora Britannica. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and Vice-President of the Open Spaces Society.He spent the first half of his life amongst the Chiltern beechwoods, and now lives in Norfolk in a house surrounded by ash trees. Review A brilliant, candid and heartfelt memoir...The account of how he broke free of depression, reshaped his life and reconnected with the wild becomes nothing short of a manifesto for living...Mabeys particular vision, informed by a lifetimes reading and observation, is ultimately optimistic. It is also what makes his voice so appealing amid all the froth and flam of the eco-debate -- Philip Marsden * Sunday Times *A book of which only he could have written a single page...marvellously observed, deeply felt from sentence to sentence. The writing is exquisite -- David Sexton, * Evening Standard *Subtle, devotional, poetic * Observer *Rich, invigorating and deeply restorative * Irish Times *Nature Cure moves between the nervous breakdown of an individual and the madness of the modern world with a prescience akin to that of T.S. Eliots The Waste Land -- Jonathan Bate * Guardian *Mabey is a radical, inheritor of an old English tradition...The core of the book is his exploration of his new landscape. It feels a privilege to share it, watching him unpick the layers of watery Norfolk, with dazzling skill and the warmest of hearts, as his troubled mind heals -- Michael McCarthy * Independent *Written in the radiant, tingle-making prose that has earned Mabey literary prizes and a multitude of fans... both a wake-up call and an example of how the love of nature can electrify and heal the imagination. -- Val Hennessy * Daily Mail *An inspiring book -- Nicholas Bagnall * Sunday Telegraph *Britains greatest living nature writer * The Times * Promotional Britains greatest living nature writer (The Times) describes how he conquered clinical depression through his re-awakened love of nature. Review Text A brilliant, candid and heartfelt memoir... The account of how he broke free of depression, reshaped his life and reconnected with the wild becomes nothing short of a manifesto for living ...Mabeys particular vision, informed by a lifetimes reading and observation, is ultimately optimistic. It is also what makes his voice so appealing amid all the froth and flam of the eco-debate Review Quote "A book of which only he could have written a single page…marvellously observed, deeply felt from sentence to sentence. The writing is exquisite." -David Sexton,Evening Standard "A brilliant, candid and heartfelt memoir…The account of how he broke free of depression, reshaped his life and reconnected with the wild becomes nothing short of a manifesto for living…Mabeys particular vision, informed by a lifetimes reading and observation, is ultimately optimistic. It is also what makes his voice so appealing amid all the froth and flam of the eco-debate." -Philip Marsden,Sunday Times "Mabey is a radical, inheritor of an old English tradition…The core of the book is his exploration of his new landscape. It feels a privilege to share it, watching him unpick the layers of watery Norfolk, with dazzling skill and the warmest of hearts, as his troubled mind heals." -Michael McCarthy,Independent "Written in the radiant, tingle-making prose that has earned Mabey literary prizes and a multitude of fans… both a wake-up call and an example of how the love of nature can electrify and heal the imagination." -Val Hennessy,Daily Mail From the Hardcover edition. Promotional "Headline" Britains greatest living nature writer ( The Times ) describes how he conquered clinical depression through his re-awakened love of nature. Excerpt from Book I Flitting I dwell on trifles like a child I feel as ill becomes a man And still my thoughts like weedlings wild Grow up to blossom where they can. John Clare, The Flitting ITS OCTOBER, AN INDIAN summer. Im standing on the threshold like some callow teenager, about to move house for the first time in my life. Ive spent more than half a century in this place, in this undistinguished, comfortable town house on the edge of the Chiltern Hills, and had come to think wed reached a pretty good accommodation. To have all mod cons on the doorstep of the quirkiest patch of countryside in south-east England had always seemed just the job for a rather solitary writing life. Id use the house as a ground-base, and do my living in the woods, or in my head. I liked to persuade myself that the Chiltern landscape, with its folds and free-lines and constant sense of surprise, was what had shaped my prose, and maybe me too. But now Im upping sticks and fleeing to the flatlands of East Anglia. My past, or lack of it, had caught up with me. Id been bogged down in the same place for too long, trapped by habits and memories. I was clotted with rootedness. And in the end Id fallen ill and run out of words. My Irish grandfather, a day-worker who rarely stayed in one house long enough to pay the rent, knew what to do at times like this. In that word that catches all the shades of escape, from the young birds flutter from the nest to the dodging of someone in trouble, hed flit. Yet hovering on the brink of this belated initiation, all I can do is think back again, to another wrenching journey. It had been a few summers before, when I was just beginning to slide into a state of melancholy and senselessness that were incomprehensible to me. I was due to go for a holiday in the Cevennes with some old friends, a few weeks in the limestone causses that had become something of a tradition, but could barely summon up enough spirit to leave home. Somehow I made it, and the Cevennes were, for that brief respite, as healing as ever, a time of sun and hedonism and companionship. But towards the end of my stay something happened which lodged in my mind like a primal memory: a glimpse of another species rite of passage. Id travelled south to the Herault for a couple of days, and stayed overnight with my friends in a crooked stone house in Octon. In the morning we came across a fledgling swift beached in the attic. It had fallen out of the nest and lay with its crescent wings stretched out stiffly, unable to take off. Close to, its juvenile plumage wasnt the enigmatic black of those careering midsummer silhouettes, but a marbled mix of charcoal-grey and brown and powder-white. And we could see the price it paid for being so exquisitely adapted to a life that would be spent almost entirely in the air. Its prehensile claws, four facing to the front, were mounted on little more than feathered stumps, half-way down its body. We picked it up, carried it to the window and hurled it out. It was just six weeks old, and having its maiden flight and first experience of another species all in the same moment. But whatever its emotions, they were overtaken by instinct and natural bravura. It went into a downward slide, winnowing furiously, skimmed so close to the road that we all gasped, and then flew up strongly towards the south-east. It would not touch down again until it came back to breed in two summers time. How many miles is that? How many wing-beats? How much time off? I tried to imagine the journey that lay ahead of it, the immense odyssey along a path never flown before, across chronic war-zones and banks of Mediterranean gunmen, through precipitous changes of weather and landscape. Its parents and siblings had almost certainly left already. It would be flying the 6,000 miles entirely on its own, on a course mapped out - or at least sketched out - deep in its central nervous system. Every one of its senses would be helping to guide it, checking its progress against genetic memories, generating who knows what astonishing experiences of consciousness. Maybe, like many seabirds, it would be picking up subtle changes in air-borne particles as it passed over seas and aromatic shrubland and the dusty thermals above African townships. It might be riding a magnetic trail detected by iron-rich cells in its forebrain. It would almost certainly be using, as navigation aids, landmarks whose shapes fitted templates in its genetic memories, and the sun too, and, on clear nights, the big constellations - which, half-way through its journey, would be replaced by a quite different set in the night sky of the southern hemisphere. Then, after three or four weeks, it would arrive in South Africa and earn its reward of nine months of unadulterated, aimless flying and playing. Come the following May, it and all the other first-year birds would come back to Europe and race recklessly about the sky just for the hell of it. That is what swifts do. It is their ancestral, unvarying destiny for the non-breeding months. But you would need to have a very sophisticated view of pleasure to believe they werent also enjoying themselves. When that May came round I was blind to the swifts for the first time in my life. While they were en f Details ISBN0099531828 Author Richard Mabey Pages 240 Year 2008 ISBN-10 0099531828 ISBN-13 9780099531821 Format Paperback Publication Date 2008-06-19 Place of Publication London Country of Publication United Kingdom DEWEY 362.19685270092 Media Book Language English Publisher Vintage Publishing Imprint Vintage UK Release Date 2008-06-19 AU Release Date 2008-06-19 NZ Release Date 2008-06-19 Translator Olga Meerson Birth 2020 Affiliation Assistant Professor, Department of Mechanical Engineering, NSS College of Engineering, Palakkad, India Position UN Under-Secretary General and Rector Qualifications QC Alternative 9781448114696 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:15502675;

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