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4th January 1934 – 8th November 2012
On Wednesday 6th February, at 11:30am a service of thanksgiving for the life of Tim Rix, publisher, was held at St Bride's Church, Fleet Street.
The Venerable David Meara delivered the bidding:-
Here in the Printer's church, in an area of London redolent of books and publishing, we gather to celebrate the life and honour the memory of Timothy Rix, publisher, Chief Executive and Chairman of Longmans, who served on the boards of many publishing houses, was President of the Publishers Association, and was honoured with a CBE in 1997.
We remember today a man of infectious enthusiasm, full of laughter and fun, a man of wide interest and deep intellect, a family man devoted to his children and grandchildren, generous and warm-hearted. He was a big personality and he leaves a big gap in the lives of his family and friends.
As we give thanks for him today, we commend him into the care and keeping of his Heavenly Father, trusting that at the end of our brief day is the eternity of God's love.
Lucy, Oliver and Juliet Rix, read A Parsonage In Oxfordshire by William Wordsworth and 'East Coker' extract from Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot
A Parsonage In Oxfordshire
Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,
Is marked by no distinguishable line;
The turf unites, the pathways intertwine;
And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends,
Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends,
And neighbours rest together, here confound
Their several features, mingled like the sound
Of many waters, or as evening blends
With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,
Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave;
And while those lofty 2 poplars gently wave
Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky
Bright as the glimpses of eternity,
To saints accorded in their mortal hour.
Four Quartets 'East Coker' extract
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
Jacqui Scott and Anne Walmsley read Four Quartets 'Little Gidding' V
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always -
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
Bridget Shine read Do not stand at my grave and weep, Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the mornings's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
The choir & organist of St Bride's performed the following anthems and songs:-
Aria from The Goldberg Variations - J.S. Bach
Lord, who may dwell in your sanctuary - Matthew Morley
Die Zwei Blauen Augen - Gustav Mahler
Skimbleshanks, the Railway Cat from Cats by T.S.Eliot - Andrew Lloyd Webber, arr. Gwyn Arch
Over hill, over dale from Three Shakespeare Songs - Ralph Vaughan Williams
If Ye Love Me - Thomas Tallis
Number 3, The Goldberg Variations - J.S. Bach
Lord of All Hopefulness
The Lord's My Shepherd
OBITUARIES & COMMENT
"Warning: if you are going to play croquet with Tim Rix make sure he is on your side. He is an extremely nice person until he gets hold of a croquet mallet!" - John Elslely (drawing by Albi)