Stepping out

 Christmas Day, Hotel Belvedere, Vevey.

Xmas dinner. Forty people. Two strangers came in for dinner. I don't know where they came from considering that we are 6,000 feet up a mountain and, as far as I know, the funicular isn't running. They had to have a table in the middle of the room. Lights turned out for entry of blue-burning Xmas pudding. Admirable dinner.

By way of preparation, knowing that I would inevitably be expected to overeat, I went for a good walk this morning. A crisp and clear Christmas morning. Not many people about. Light frost on the ground which was good for walking. A satisfying crunch underfoot as the boot sank into the top surface of what would have been mud had the temperature been a few degrees higher. Deep lungfulls of cold mountain air. Remarkably clear air. Very invigorating and a success in terms of appetite cultivation. 

Is a hotel a good place to spend Xmas? Well, the main benefit is that one has no need to engage in the ritual effort to be pleasant and welcoming to relatives; far easier to be pleasant to people one does not know, and will not see again post festive season. Also, hardly any of the always embarrassing present business, just a small gift for and from Marguerite. I suppose this tradition has arisen from the alleged visit of the 'three wise men' to the newly delivered parents in Bethlehem, bearing gifts. In my opinion they would have been a lot wiser to have left the gifts at home for someone who could appreciate them. I ask you, what was the infant meant to do with gold, frankincense and myrrh? What is myrrh anyway? Incidentally I bet Joseph was looking closely at the infant to see if any resemblances came to mind. Nobody ever tells us what he thought about it all! Finally, the food is much better than at home. That I can vouch for. Most of the people here are British so it is hard to believe that one is abroad without stepping outside.

So, I shall need another stroll this evening, especially if, as seems likely, there will be additional temptations on the culinary front. I must gird my loins.

Book reviewers

 Sunday, December 20th., Cadogan Square, London.

Amongst other things, I am a reviewer of books. I have been reviewing books professionally for the last 30 years, and was an informal reviewer prior to that. The Christmas season is good for book reviewers as fewer books are published, and we deserve a rest.

In my humble opinion reviewers deserve more consideration as well. Their task is terrible. I doubt whether it is not better to be a coal miner than a popular reviewer. The miner's hours are shorter and the work is less deleterious to the mind; and since the body depends on the mind, the mind should count for more than the body; and I wish that the majority of persons could grasp this fact; and they don't. A popular reviewer has little opportunity , or none, to reinvigorate his mind, and to revive and establish his standards by reading masterpieces. The larger part of his day is spent in boredom and in the excruciating and vain effort to be fair. He needs a rest from mediocrity.

Reviewers should not be despised and reviled. The publisher is the midwife of new literature, not the reviewer. He may unwittingly mislead you; he may be cursed with (what seems to you to be) bad taste. he may be cranky, or bitter, or over-kind. But where would you be without him? For at worst he does give you some notion of what a new book is about. He does help you to form a preliminary opinion of your own. For a book buyer, to be without reviewers would be like being a traveller without maps. 

There are two classes of men in society whom I daily venerate: bus-drivers, and book-reviewers. Their tact, their self-possession and good judgement in the bright face of danger, the courageous, indomitable fight against the deadly influences of endless monotony on the soul, inspire me with admiration. Did I say that I am, amongst other things, a reviewer of books?

Simpering virgins

Monday, December 13th., Cadogan Square, London.

 

To the Hotel Cecil for the grand political Liberal Party dinner in honour of Vivian Phillipps, Chief Whip and organiser of the said party. Earl Grey in the chair. It was quite lively at our table. Nearly all the white-haired politicians behaved as usual at these things, just like kids - pleased to death at the slightest 'hit', or comedy platitudes. Beaming all the time. I think that it is having attended public schools that does it. They know that they must behave themselves in public life, or at least not get found out, but in private they revert to a sort of posh schoolboy mentality, secure in the knowledge that some menial will clear up after them. It is quite entertaining to observe.

Well, I have come to the conclusion that Christmas is not what it was. Where is the Christmas spirit which sought to send all tradesmen home to their families at least half-drunk? Where are the colour supplements portraying chubby children and hale old port-drinkers, and thick snow, and simpering virgins in long frocks standing with reluctant feet where the brook and the river meet? Terrible maidens those virgins - in my opinion much more devastating than the knee-showing, cocktail-consuming, smoke-inhaling, sham-jewellery wearing, hard-swearing, painted and powdered damsels of our epoch. In the days of the simper those virgins were addressed nightly by the poets of three high-brow London evening papers, and the message of their nine hundred lyrics a year was to the effect that if the virgins smiled in a particular way the poets would be in bliss for ever, and if the virgins frowned in a particular way the poets would be ruined for ever. A somewhat violent conceit; marvellously untrue to life; and where is it now?

The divine fire

Christmas Day, Chiltern Court, London.

Bright and sunny, just as it should be. Brisk walk. Smell of cooking on return stimulating the gastric juices. Just time for a few thoughts before settling down to a serious session of over-eating.

A number of people, all of them wanting information, most of them unwilling to take decisions, have been asking me to tell them what books to buy for Christmas. I have refused to advise. A book as a Christmas present is a dangerous thing. The recipient will quite probably not like it and, if he or she does like it, they will resent the fact that you have deprived them of the pleasure of 'finding' it for themselves. For a serious book person the finding is almost as rewarding as the reading itself. The recipient may not even read it, in which case his politeness will compel him to lie to you, or at best prevaricate.


All I would say positively about books as presents for Christmas is that they need not be Christmas books, nor books impregnated by what is termed 'the Christmas spirit'. There are excellent Christmas books, and I have read a few of them, but I should have enjoyed them equally well in a heat wave. And I would absolutely decline to circumscribe Christmas reading by limiting its subject.

There is in fact a marvellous embarrassment of choice for the prospective book buyer at this season, which may make him miserable, but should also make him happy - or the divine fire is not in him. Personally I am both miserable and happy. I could readily name two hundred books in the Christmas lists that I should be glad to have or glad to present. Withal, I am writing in a room fortified by four thousand volumes - and five ashtrays.

The vice of the Potteries

Thursday, December 24th., Waterloo Road, Burslem.

I had a smooth passage over on Monday and came here yesterday with Tertia, William and a headache. The first printed thing that caught my eye when I landed at Newhaven was a newspaper placard: "Vice in the Potteries: Shocking Details." It turns out that a bumptious local vicar, the Honourable Leonard Tyrwhitt by name, has been preaching sermons on "The Devil (and all his works) in the Potteries". It beggars belief. Talk about self-righteous, he is the sort of priest who goves religion a bad name.

It is one of the easiest and one of the most dangerous things in the world to kick up the dust of what is called 'morals'. The mere word 'vice' will draw people together from afar as a dead dog will draw carrion crows. When I tried to buy the London newspaper which had placarded our 'vice', do you suppose I could get it? Not a bit. It was sold out. It was sold out all over London. And the fact is that for days past the whole of England has been feasting upon the panorama of our alleged enormities.

It would be interesting to know whether any thinking man really believes at the bottom of his heart that human nature is worse in the Potteries than it is elsewhere. For my part I regard the theory that the Potteries is ultra-vicious as unworthy of discussion. I have no doubt that the same 'vice' is to be found in any large manufacturing district. Indeed in English villages a virgin at age twenty is something of a curiosity. No doubt the Honourable Tyrwhitt has emerged from that stratum of society which is sufficiently affluent to be high-minded and high-moraled. His elevated position does not however give him the right to look down on those less favoured by birth and expect them to conform to his idea of what is right and wrong.



I went out this morning and saw numbers of people as I walked down to Burslem. This afternoon, walking to Hanley, I was struck by the orange-apple cold Christmas smell of the greengrocers' shops. And now all is silent. There is a palpable air of expectation.

Misunderstood

Saturday, December 25th., Cadogan Square, London.

This Xmas all right, though I did not have a good night before it. It was all organised by Dorothy, and she made it very successful. It was her first Christmas in charge of a household. I have no doubt that, if asked, she would say that it was success in spite of, rather than because of, me. I have acquired a reputation as a 'bah... humbug' sort of person, which I think is undeserved. It makes sense to me that there should be a festival mid-winter, to mark the turn of the seasons, but it is all the frenzied preparations and materiality which give me offence. I blame Dickens!

Another area in which I am misunderstood is in my tendency to question things. I don't like to take things for granted but when I pose a simple question it is often interpreted as my being negative. For example whilst we were out walking yesterday we saw an old lady standing by herself and seeming to be in need of help. I was on my way to offer assistance but a young man beat me to it. The lady thanked him but said she was quite all right, just taking a rest. It was suggested to me that this was an example of how kind people could be. I agreed but pointed out that even to offer help is not a selfless act, because the person offering gets a psychological reward; they feel themselves to be a good person. In my view there is no such thing as 'pure' altruism. I did not intend to minimise the action but was nevertheless condemned as a grumpy old detractor. Well, at least that is correct in part!

I have opened my presents. Some are consumable, which is good. Some are books, which is better. Some are puzzles, which suggests to me that there is a suspicion abroad that I am in need of mental stimulation to counteract the effects of ageing. 

Literary overload

Saturday, December 22^nd., Chiltern Court, London.

A wide inquiry ought to be made as to the average time given to reading by the average person fond of books. I estimate that it cannot be more than an hour a day, and even that is generous. I am led to this suggestion following a visit to a bookshop this morning – it was awash with persons who appeared increasingly desperate to find a book (almost any book) which would ‘do’ as a Christmas present. I had hoped to browse at leisure, but such was not to be.
How many of these books will be read? Rather less than are put onto a shelf for a year or two and then disposed of when it is safe to do so without offence to the giver. 
 
Now, go into a bookshop and see the new books and new editions. Scan the literary pages of the press. Examine the multitudinous advertisements of publishers. Not only will you be intimidated by the mere mass, you will be compelled to admit that even if we had a hundred Christmases on end, and ate and drank in strictest moderation, and refrained from parties and read steadily all day and every day we could not read a quarter or an eighth of the books which are worth reading. 
 
The output of books is enormous and growing, but the literary public is also enormous and growing and feels under pressure to ‘keep up’ with new authors and fashions. There is some sort of a public for nearly every good book, and the duty of the wise is to choose one book and to totally ignore another. And then to read it slowly and with pleasure. All hurried reading is worse than futile; it is a waste of time. I admire a person who says when a certain book is mentioned: “It may be a masterpiece but I haven’t read it, and I shan’t”.

Domestic issues

Sunday, December 26th., George Street, London.

Two thoroughly bad nights, full of the church clock. Still I wrote over 4,000 words of my novel in 3 days, with lots of preoccupations, almost all to do with my wife. How altered time appears to be at night. I never sleep through the night but usually go more or less straight back to sleep after the necessary visit. I always manage without putting on a light and try my best not to reach full consciousness at all. After several years of practice I am quite adept. But, occasionally, I find myself unable to get back to sleep. I have tried all the normal strategies and sometimes they work. If all else fails I surrender to wakefulness and read for an hour or so. That almost invariably does the trick.  

I shall have to have it out with Marguerite soon. She likes to pretend that I am jealous of Legros. It flatters her to think so. But it is not true. I am incapable of being jealous, probably because I should regard a woman capable of doing anything deserving jealousy as not worth being jealous about. She seems to be infatuated with the man. He is a personable young fellow in his way and pays her much attention. She is clearly flattered and no doubt feels a boost to be admired by a younger man. I would feel the same myself if admired by a young woman. But I hope I would retain the good sense and dignity to recognise the situation for what it is. Regrettably Marguerite appears not to possess the requisite good sense. I have been hoping that she would wake up, but instead things are getting worse.

As for presents at Christmas, it seems that she does not agree with me that present-giving should be not a duty but a pleasure. To give to one whose behaviour is constantly wounding, as Marguerite's is to me, is not a very keen pleasure. When she realises what is due to me, and acts accordingly, she will not go short of presents. I am confident that my will is the stronger. Of course, if she allows the infatuation to go too far then I will have to act. I fear there may be further broken nights ahead.

A book season

Monday, December 25th., Cadogan Square, London.

The Christmas book season is over for another year. Publishers and booksellers will have sent out their final parcels and closed their doors on the last undecided customer. Sales and profits (though most of them say they never make a profit) will be closely estimated and distribution staff will take a well-deserved rest. Popular and unpopular authors will have ceased to pester their publishers by telephone inquiries concerning the exact sales figures foir their books up to the hour of telephoning.

Some authors will be enjoying a merry Christmas in a world where readers have shown a taste for good books. Other authors will be experiencing a dismal season in a world where readers simply don't recognise a good book when they see it. Reviewers, an unthanked and misunderstood class , will be preoccupied with hateful questions relating to quarter day.

The huge book departments of the big stores will be sheeted over, and the booksellers will have put up their shutters, knowing that when they take them down again they will do so in an atmosphere of slack leisure and hope deferred. Which leisure I trust they will devote to good resolutions towards improved methods of trade.

And the books? How many, having been received with protestations of extreme pleasure, will lie unread in a convenient, conspicuous book trough and will, in due course of time, find their way to an unregarded high shelf?

How time robs the reader

By tomorrow night the Christmas book season will be over. Publishers will have sent out their final parcels, and closely estimated their sales and profits (though most of them say they never make a profit). Popular and unpopular authors will have ceased to pester their publishers by telephone and e-mail concerning the exact circulation of their books up to time of asking. Some authors will be preparing for a merry Christmas in a world where readers have shown a commendable taste for good books. Other authors will be preparing for a gloomy Christmas in a world where readers simply don't know a good book when they see it. Reviewers, an unthanked and misunderstood class, will be preoccupied with hateful questions relating to their career prospects.


Time lacks, more even than money lacks, for the faithful, interested reader. Take for example Heinemann's "Great Short Stories of the World". Here are over one thousand pages comprising 178 short stories which extend over all the world, and over thousands of years. An extremely remarkable production. All the greatest short stories are not in it, but very many of them are, and the number of inferior ones is quite small. But even by this time next year even the bravest reader will almost certainly not have vanquished this prodigious volume.