A hard read

Wednesday, January 11th., Cadogan Square, London.

Ivor Nicholson came for tea at 5.15, and wanted six more articles for Hearsts: but only the English rights thereof. So I refused. I said I would write for 2s. a word and return to Hearsts all I received by selling the articles on my own in the U.S.A. It wasn't what he was expecting!

The Daily News rang up to say that Hardy was dead, and would I say something. I wouldn't. But I decided that I must get up early tomorrow morning, and write a Standard article on Hardy to take the place of the one on Gilbert Murray. This news has affected me. I liked Hardy and he was really the last link with a former generation of writers.

Last evening in bed I finished an interesting book titled "The History of Loneliness", by John Boyne, a writer not previously known to me. The subject is corruption in the Catholic Church in Ireland, and specifically the covering-up of child sexual abuse by priests. It takes the form of a first person narrative by one Odran Yates, himself a priest in his sixties. Giving an account of incidents in his life he exposes religious hypocricy, abuse of power, cultural inertia and much more. All culminating in admission of his own culpability as a man who did nothing. And we as readers realise, as Yates does himself, that his life has been a waste and a sham. Depressing. Boyne is excellent at dialogue, conveying a real sense of the tensions and evasions that litter discourse. I particularly enjoyed his account of a radio interview of an Irish Cardinal. He mistakenly, in my view, inserts an episode where Yates goes to Rome and works for the Pope which does nothing to take the story forward. I suppose the intention was to say that corruption in the Catholic Church is widespread and systemic. Overall this is a powerful  piece of writing which should probably be required reading in theological colleges everywhere. The good news seems to be that Irish society has moved on from its subservience to the Church. I would thank God for that if I believed in Him!

Looking back

Wednesday, December 1st., Cadogan Square, London.

When I opened the Daily Mail this morning I found that Birkenhead had made no further answer to me; so the incident is now, I suppose, closed. The press has been very generally in my favour. I had prepared some heavy artillery to kill him if he had continued to fight.  Woke up with a stiff back this morning and couldn't get comfortable in any sitting position. Fortunately it seems easier following my afternoon nap.

Mary Borden wrote an article in the Standard (as a retort to my criticisms of her) advising the young to take no notice of the work of H.G. Wells and myself. She is a clever woman, and was clever enough to ignore my criticisms of her. 

Five years ago yesterday my mother died and I never thought about it all day, but this morning it came into my mind. I looked back through my journals to find the relevant entry; didn't have much to say. Then I browsed a bit in the journals. They are interesting, I think, and varied. My recurring themes seem to be my health, and going out. I don't write much about the process of creation of my novels which is a pity. It would probably be interesting to anyone reading my journal in the future. Which begs the question, will I leave my journals behind when I 'go'? Who am I writing them for? I suppose I may one day have a biographer - who knows?

Winding down

Wednesday, April 11th., Cadogan Square, London.

Another dull, rainy day. The question on the lips of everyone at the moment is: "Will it ever stop raining?" Last weekend it was quite bright and we had three days without rain, but people generally do not let facts interfere with their preconceived notion of things. I suppose I have the same tendency myself, but am too intimately involved with the principal to notice it! What I do notice is that the weather has a significant effect on the mood of people. I think I have hinted at this from time to time in my books but I might have made more of it.

I have been re-reading "Clayhanger". I feel that I have Edwin just right. That said, I suspect that only a reader who is himself rather of the diffident, melancholy, self-critical inclination is likely to fully appreciate how well-realised as a character Edwin is. Last might I read the scene between Edwin and Hilda in the cubicle/office of the shop. I don't think I could have improved on it. The dialogue seems to me to be authentic, and Edwin's emotional state is perfectly captured - it is a 'Goldilocks' scene! Most people think that "The Old Wives' Tale" is my best book but "Clayhanger" touches me more deply because there is so much more of me in it.

As regards work, I have finished reading Sullivan on Relativity, and I also read Montmorency's new little book "From Kant to Einstein". Those under my belt I have completed my article on Relativity for the Evening Standard. I find that I have five of these artciles in hand and may do another tomorrow. This is a reassuring situation. I feel as if the work I have to do before I go away is drawing to a close. I shall be in North Wales for a few days next week, quite by myself. Looking forward to it.

 
 

Ideas needed

Monday, February 12th., Hotel Savoy, Cortina d'Ampezzo, Italy.

Woke to a clear blue sky and a hard frost. Perfect day for a good walk and I seized the opportunity. Out just after 9 o'clock. Invigorating chill in the air. I noticed the satisfying crunch of the frost-frozen mud as I put my weight into each step. And no adhesion to the sole of the boot. In fact my boots were cleaner when I got back than when I set off. A good long walk is just the thing for someone of a thoughtful disposition. I suppose some would say that it was a waste of valuable working time, and I might myself in my younger days. But not now. There is nothing like a solitary walk in the countryside for getting ideas. And one really good idea is worth any amount of time labouring with second class ideas at the desk.

I wish I had more knowledge about nature and the countryside. Of course it's not important to be able to name birds and animals, the thing is to enjoy them 'in the moment' as it were. But there is a stubborn part of me that wants to know what they are. My knowledge is abysmal! It occurred to me today that I don't even know what the difference is between moss and lichen. Why does one grow where it does and not the other? And birds ... I saw a bird of prey swooping and diving over a field, obviously hunting. I don't think it was a kestrel but what was it? A bit depressed by my ignorance, but content overall. Especially as I had a grand sleep this afternoon.

I want to write one more article for the Evening Standard before we leave here; but I don't seem to be able to get any leading idea for it, except that of slating one or two of my young friends, such as William Gerhardi. I did get the first inkling of an idea this morning, something about the 'reforming' inclinations of our imaginative writers, like Wells and Huxley, but it needs development.

I read a lot more of Castellane's "Memoirs". There are still very good things in it, though some pages are tedious and even absurd. And all the criticisms of his wife are a mistake. After all he lived with her for twelve years and had two children by her. When you have done that you ought to leave a woman alone.

Ceasing to struggle

Wednesday, December 21st., Cadogan Square, London.

Nothing doing this morning with my short story. So that before breakfast I had already come to the decision that I would leave it for today, and write my next week's Evening Standard article instead. Which I did. Then at 3.30 Saville, together with a scenario writer, came to discuss a scenario for "The Pretty Lady". I made it absolutely clear that Christine must remain absolutely a prostitute.

Victor Saville (1895 – 1979) An art dealer's son, Victor Saville was educated at King Edward VI Grammar School in Birmingham. He served in the British Army during World War I, was wounded at the Battle of Loos in 1915 and invalided out the following year. His first involvement with the film business was as manager of a small theater in Coventry, where he worked during the evenings. In the daytime, he was employed in a film distribution office. From 1917, Saville worked in the Features and Newsreels Department of the Pathé organisation in London. Just two years later, he co-founded Victory Pictures in conjunction with Michael Balcon. Between 1926 and 1927, he produced feature films for Gaumont, based at their Lime Grove Studios in Shepherd's Bush.

As my Standard article will be the last this year I have made it a general one, about reading and readers.

You simply can't help the tyro to choose what to read. The choice is vast and he must let his fancy choose. He may make mistakes. In fact, he will. But it is his business to make mistakes. The tyro is like a homing pigeon first released from its basket, rising and surveying all the earth within its range of vision. All one can urge him (or her) to do is to keep a cool head in coming to the full realisation of the vast and varied mass of really fine literature which English writers have produced in the last 600 years. Nobody can read everything, or the hundredth part of everything. And the person who sets out to read everything will know nothing worth knowing, because his task will have cut him off from life itself.

For myself, at the end of half a century of struggle, I have given up the appalling enterprise of 'keeping abreast'. And not just in books. I have run till I am breathless after music, and after painting, and after architecture. So I take holidays from being in the movement. During which holidays, which sometimes continue for months at a stretch, I totally refuse to go to concerts, or I refuse to go to picture galleries, or I refuse to look at buildings. I just lie down and, glancing up now and then from a book, sardonically watch the strugglers struggling.

It is essential in my view to have frequent adventures in the foolish, wise, vain invaluable world. Most of these adventures are unprofitable, or not directly profitable. However I have had them, and none has been utterly futile because they have saved me from feeling 'apart'. When I look back at the literature of this or any year I discover that not much of it has stuck in my mind. Nevertheless, if I had the year to live again I would not in this respect live it differently. I have had contacts. I have been among the things that are. That will be my New Year thought.