Alone in Paris

Sunday, November 8th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Today I managed to concentrate pretty nearly all day, 'til 9.30 p.m. on my story, and I collected a few decent ideas for it. I saw no one to speak to except my domestique, in the morning, and the waitresses at my restaurants. Last thing, I began to read "Don Quixote".

So, It has been such a day as ought to satisfy a man of letters. Having done my correspondence I went out at 10.15 for a walk, and to consider the plot of my story. I strolled about the Quartier de l'Europe 'til 11.30, and then lunched at my usual restaurant where I am expected, and where my maternal waitress advised me in the selection of my lunch. During lunch I read Le Journal. I came home, finished Le Journal, read "Don Quixote" and fell asleep. Then at 1.30 I amused myself on the piano. At 2 I began, in my Bruges chair, to ponder further on my story, and the plot seemed to be coming. At 3.30 I made my afternoon tea, and then read more "Don Quixote" and fell asleep for about a minute. The plot was now coming faster and faster, and at 5 I decided that I would, at any rate, begin to sketch the story. At 6.45 I had done a complete rough draft of the whole story.

Then I dressed and went to dine in my other restaurant in the Place Blanche, where the food and wine are good, and the waiters perfect models, and the chasseur charming, where men bring their mistresses, and where occasionally a 'mistress' dines alone, and where the atmosphere is a curious mixture of discretion and sans gene. The whole place seems to say: "You should see what fun we have here between midnight and 3 a.m. with our Hungarian music and our improvised dancing, and so on , and so on ..." I dined slowly and well, whilst reading Le Temps and The Pilot, and also watching the human life in the place. Then I took coffee and a cigar. I returned home at 8.30 and played the piano. 

The idea of writing my chronique for T.P.'s Weekly a day earlier than usual came into my head, the scheme of the article presented itself, and at 9.30 I suddenly began to write it, finishing it at 11.35. I then went to bed and read "Don Quixote" 'til 12.15. I felt content!

There is a lot to be said for the solitary life as exemplified by this day of mine. Did I feel lonely at any time? Positively not. It almost seems that time expands when one is alone, and so much more is achieved. Social contact is time consuming and rarely beneficial, particularly for an artist. Even fleeting attention to the concerns and ideas of others means a loss of focus on one's own creativity. Not to say that all society should be foresworn. Bread rises better when leavened. I think I should have more days like today. Of course if I had a mistress myself .......

Harris and Shakespere

Friday, October 8th., Villa des Nefliers.

Mistake yesterday. "The Glimpse" was published today and not on Wednesday. I received today a highly enthusiastic letter from Waugh about it. He does not think it will sell. I have a wild idea that it will.

A wild wet morning, and it was very fine on the hill in the rain at 8.15. I came home and wrote the first of new series of articles for T.P's Weekly on English family life. rather pleased with it.

After lunch I painted. Then had tea here and went down to Godebskis for tea afterwards. Wonderful colours on the Godebskis' house and trees. Showers and wind.

Frank Harris

After dinner I finished Harris's Shakespere, amid enthusiasm. I telegraphed him that it surpassed my most sanguine expectations and was glorious. It is. But I wish I hadn't got to write an article on it. The ever-increasing emotion, which I experienced as I read steadily through Harris's book I can only compare with unforgettable sensations that have perturbed me at moments when I stood between earth and sky on some high tor of Dartmoor. . . . I realised that a masterpiece on Shakspere had at length been written. The opening pages of "The Man Shakspere" at once produce certainty that the mind of its author is worldly, non-academic, and powerfully creative. I use "worldly" in a good sense. I mean that the author knows the actual world, moves about in it freely, and is versed in life itself: qualities denied to professors, or to most of them. And he writes as an artist. He does not fit words ingeniously together; he plastically moulds the whole phrase. All English literature is divided into Shakspere and the rest, and in the subconsciousness of the race is a notion that Shakspere's defects are finer than other writers' virtues. Mr. Frank Harris has a very short way with all this. His fist goes through the pane instantly, and the breezes of commonsense blow through the stuffy chambers where the commentators have been mumbling at their priest-like task. By its courage, its originality, its force, its patient ingenuity, its comprehension of art and the artist, its acquaintance with life, and its perfectly astounding acquaintance with Shakspere's plays, the ultimate destiny of the book is assured. It marks an epoch. It has destroyed nearly all previous Shaksperean criticism, and it will be the parent of nearly all the Shaksperean criticism of the future.

Strolling in Paris

Monday, January 29th., Paris.

After having written my T.P's W. article today I went out for a stroll through Paris, meaning to reach a bookshop on the Quai de Grands Augustins.

I went down the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, which I think is the street that pleases me most in Paris - and I bought Arsene Houssaye's "Souvenirs de Jeunesse" which I have been reading tonight.




In the Passage Jouffray where I frequently find a book, I found nothing, and when I got to the Grands Augustins the etalage of the shop was already taken inside, it being 6.30.

I do enjoy these slow walks through Paris on fine winter afternoons: crowded pavements, little curiosity shops, and the continual interest of women. I walked back to the Chatelet station of the Metro. and went to the Concorde and thence walked to the Place de l'Opera, stopping at the Trois Quartier shop, where there are some very nice things.

Then I went to the Standard office, and Raphael came out and dined with me. I got home at 10. I have had several days of regular unhurried work lately, interspersed with such strolls. I have come to the conclusion that this is as near a regular happiness as I am ever likely to get.

Yesterday I finished the first instalment of "The Sinews of War", as the T.P's Weekly serial is to be called, and thought it very good.

Launched on 14 November 1902, T.P.'s Weekly was the latest publishing venture of Radical M.P. 

T. P. O'Connor, founder of London's halfpenny The Star and the penny weekly M.A.P. (Mainly About People) (1898) and Weekly Sun (1891). Priced one penny, T.P.'s Weekly promised "to bring to many thousands a love of letters", securing to this end contributions from a distinguished array of writers: George Bernard Shaw, Arnold Bennett, H. G. Wells, and G. K. Chesterton. In practice, O'Connor delegated most of the running of the magazine to Wilfred Whitten (whose byline "John O'London" supplied the title of another contemporary literary magazine, John O'London's Weekly). Whitten was succeeded in 1914 by Holbrook Jackson, under whose editorship the journal changed name in 1916 to To-Day. Shortly after the journal folded in January 1917, it was succeeded by another, unrelated magazine bearing the same name, which continued until 1924.

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