Tuesday, January 24th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.
Last night I finished my sensational novel, "The Curse of Love", fifty thousand words in exactly three months, with all my other work.The writing of it has enormously increased my facility, and I believe that now I could do a similar novel in a month. It is, of the kind, good stuff, well written and well contrived, and some of the later chapters are eally imagined and, in a way, lyrical. I found the business, after I had got fairly into it, easy enough, and I rather enjoyed it. I could comfortably write two and a half thousand words in half a day. It has only been written once, and on revision I have scarcely touched the original draft. Now I want to do two sensational short stories - and then to my big novel.
I was thnking in the night, in that reflective state that comes after a job is finished, that this time next year we shall be in a new century, and I shall be thirty three years old, and will I be fairly launched on my new career? Sometimes I feel confident, as if nothing can prevent me, sort of 'fated'. And at others (usually after a little too much to eat and drink) I am full of misgivings. Writing is a compulsion. I must write, as others must paint, or play music, but is it wise to make it the essential core of my life? And writing is a damned lonely business I find. In some ways my job as editor of Woman suits me, though I am always complaining about it. I write a good deal, concealed behind various pseudonyms, and yet have a regular routine and an income. Surely the role could be developed further and I might go on to edit bigger and better periodicals, or even newspapers. That would be the sensible course to follow. I think it is what my father would want me to do.
Showing posts with label Woman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Woman. Show all posts
Friday, 24 January 2020
Thursday, 16 January 2020
My statement
Monday, January 16th., St. Dunstan's Chambers, London.
A Russian proverb: "If everyone washed his own doorstep, how clean the town would be!" This made me smile and is increasingly subtle the more one thinks about it.
Looking through some short stories in old volumes of a weekly paper today, I was astonished at the old-fashioned air of them. Mediocre work must age very rapidly. These tales appeared in 1893, and they were positively antique. On the other hand there are stories which defy ageing, remaining fresh to the reader whenever their genesis. What is the difference? Craft.
Several people who should know better have cast missiles at me recently for troubling with sensational serials. But why should I not write a sensational serial if I so desire? Exciting fiction is as much a form of art as any other sort of fiction. In fact I finished a serial last night and I may say, quite without prejudice, that it seems to me to be very good - ingenious, full of trepidations, and eloquent; those who begin it will finish it. There is talk of 'pot boiling', a pejorative term if ever there was one. Snobbish. William Morris says that he does not want art for the few any more than he wants education for the few, or freedom for the few. I do not want literature for the few. In my opinion there are two sorts of books: well written ones, and poorly written ones.
Then there is the question of making a living. I have no intention of sitting here all my life editing a female paper, or any paper. In fact I have now had as much of editing as I want. My desire is to be moving on and I shall not remain at Woman a moment longer than I can help. But if I leave journalism I must find something else, amd that something else is fiction. It dawns upon me that fiction is my forte. But if I continue to turn out psychological treatises like "A Man from the North", I might earn some sort of reputation, but I should not, most emphatically, earn a livelihood. Therefore I must do, to begin with, the kind of fiction that will sell. And as long as my fiction is well written I shall not be ashamed of it.
A Russian proverb: "If everyone washed his own doorstep, how clean the town would be!" This made me smile and is increasingly subtle the more one thinks about it.
Looking through some short stories in old volumes of a weekly paper today, I was astonished at the old-fashioned air of them. Mediocre work must age very rapidly. These tales appeared in 1893, and they were positively antique. On the other hand there are stories which defy ageing, remaining fresh to the reader whenever their genesis. What is the difference? Craft.
Several people who should know better have cast missiles at me recently for troubling with sensational serials. But why should I not write a sensational serial if I so desire? Exciting fiction is as much a form of art as any other sort of fiction. In fact I finished a serial last night and I may say, quite without prejudice, that it seems to me to be very good - ingenious, full of trepidations, and eloquent; those who begin it will finish it. There is talk of 'pot boiling', a pejorative term if ever there was one. Snobbish. William Morris says that he does not want art for the few any more than he wants education for the few, or freedom for the few. I do not want literature for the few. In my opinion there are two sorts of books: well written ones, and poorly written ones.
Then there is the question of making a living. I have no intention of sitting here all my life editing a female paper, or any paper. In fact I have now had as much of editing as I want. My desire is to be moving on and I shall not remain at Woman a moment longer than I can help. But if I leave journalism I must find something else, amd that something else is fiction. It dawns upon me that fiction is my forte. But if I continue to turn out psychological treatises like "A Man from the North", I might earn some sort of reputation, but I should not, most emphatically, earn a livelihood. Therefore I must do, to begin with, the kind of fiction that will sell. And as long as my fiction is well written I shall not be ashamed of it.
Sunday, 5 January 2020
Farting fiction
Sunday, January 5th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.
In the time-honoured manner, since New Year, I have been taking stock of my life and career at age thirty two.
I worked prodigiously for the last three months of last year - 96,000 words in total and I was a week in Brussels; so well over 1,000 words a day, including Sundays. I completed several short stories, a huge mass of criticism and 35,000 words of a sensational serial. I began the serial partly because I had a notion that my position, commercially, was not founded on a rock as it should be, and partly because I didn't see why I shouldn't write as good exciting fiction as anyone else.
This house costs a hell of a lot to keep going in a generous way as I like, and although I am actually earning ample for all purposes, my desire is to earn enough apart from my editorial salary. I am sick of editing Woman and of being bound to go to a blasted office every day. I want to work when I feel inclined and to travel more. I saw only one way of freeing myself from official ties, namely fiction. If other people can hit the popular taste and live on magazine and newspaper fiction, them why not me? It's not literature I know but it is better fun than going to an office and editing a ladies' paper, and should pay better. And the literature can come later.
I began the serial towards the end of October and swore to myself to do one instalment a week, though I nearly killed myself at first to keep my oath. However, after the fourth instalment (17,000 words in a month) I seemed suddenly to conquer the trick of the thing. There has been an immense increase in my facility, not only for rotten but for decent stuff. I believe I could fart sensational fiction now! Several times I have sat down at 4 pm. and done 3,000 words in the day - not to be sniffed at.
I have thoughts of sticking to the sensational stuff and blow the literary reputation but I know I won't. I am dying to get on with my Five Towns novel, which lately in my mind has assumed a larger and more epical aspect as if it has acquired a sort of independent life. I do believe it will be decent. With my newly acquired facility I fancy I could write that novel in six months and put my best work into it. It will certainly be immensely superior to "A Man from the North".
In the time-honoured manner, since New Year, I have been taking stock of my life and career at age thirty two.
I worked prodigiously for the last three months of last year - 96,000 words in total and I was a week in Brussels; so well over 1,000 words a day, including Sundays. I completed several short stories, a huge mass of criticism and 35,000 words of a sensational serial. I began the serial partly because I had a notion that my position, commercially, was not founded on a rock as it should be, and partly because I didn't see why I shouldn't write as good exciting fiction as anyone else.
This house costs a hell of a lot to keep going in a generous way as I like, and although I am actually earning ample for all purposes, my desire is to earn enough apart from my editorial salary. I am sick of editing Woman and of being bound to go to a blasted office every day. I want to work when I feel inclined and to travel more. I saw only one way of freeing myself from official ties, namely fiction. If other people can hit the popular taste and live on magazine and newspaper fiction, them why not me? It's not literature I know but it is better fun than going to an office and editing a ladies' paper, and should pay better. And the literature can come later.
I began the serial towards the end of October and swore to myself to do one instalment a week, though I nearly killed myself at first to keep my oath. However, after the fourth instalment (17,000 words in a month) I seemed suddenly to conquer the trick of the thing. There has been an immense increase in my facility, not only for rotten but for decent stuff. I believe I could fart sensational fiction now! Several times I have sat down at 4 pm. and done 3,000 words in the day - not to be sniffed at.
I have thoughts of sticking to the sensational stuff and blow the literary reputation but I know I won't. I am dying to get on with my Five Towns novel, which lately in my mind has assumed a larger and more epical aspect as if it has acquired a sort of independent life. I do believe it will be decent. With my newly acquired facility I fancy I could write that novel in six months and put my best work into it. It will certainly be immensely superior to "A Man from the North".
Tuesday, 1 January 2019
New life?
Tuesday, January 1st., Trinity Hall Farm, Hockliffe, Beds.
Taking stock at age thirty three. I am told that today, technically, starts the new century. And a hundred years from now will start the new millennium. So much for my short span!
Last year I wrote three plays, a serial of 70,000 words ("The Grand Babylon Hotel"), the draft of my Staffordshire novel ("Anna Tellwright") and part of the final writing, and half a dozen short stories. I also wrote and published 196 articles of various lengths. I collected, revised, and wrote a preface for a series of my articles from the Academy, to be called "Fame and Fiction". It is to be published later this year.
And I edited Woman magaxine until 30th. September when I resigned and came to live here in the country with my father, mother, and sister Tertia. I also advised Pearsons on 50 MSS books.
From April to the third week in December I was working almost continually at very high pressure, and had no energy to spare for this journal. I am taking it up again today in hope to incorporate it once more into my routine. There is a definite saving of time in dispensing with regular journal entries, but I find it is a useful activity to focus on my achievements, and it is pleasurable now and then to glance back. Though sometimes it is difficult to recall the person behind the words.
Since I came here, on top of work, I have been very much preoccupied and fretted in the superintendence of the repairs to this house. I consistently tell myself that I will never again work so hard, but in future will find time to read poetry regularly, to gather materials for a work on the fiction of the nineteenth century, and - ? - to study Latin.
I made £620 last year; more than ever I made in any previous year. This year, unless something goes wrong with my play "The Chancellor", I hope to make much more.
Today we were out earlyish for a walk. Few people about; probably in bed sleeping off the effects of over-indulgence in New Year celebrations. It was grey and quite cold. A sort of fine mist in the air, enough to feel on the skin, but not enough to make one wet. Everywhere very still. I liked to stop now and then just to enjoy the stillness, as if an invisible blanket had been laid over the world attenuating sound. Amusing incident when we passed through a dispersed flock of sheep whilst walking along a minor road. For some reason they gathered together and began to follow, right on our heels. An odd sensation. Presumably we were mistaken for farmers bringing food. Back home I have been browsing in old journals and imagining a successful future. Happy New Year!
Taking stock at age thirty three. I am told that today, technically, starts the new century. And a hundred years from now will start the new millennium. So much for my short span!
Last year I wrote three plays, a serial of 70,000 words ("The Grand Babylon Hotel"), the draft of my Staffordshire novel ("Anna Tellwright") and part of the final writing, and half a dozen short stories. I also wrote and published 196 articles of various lengths. I collected, revised, and wrote a preface for a series of my articles from the Academy, to be called "Fame and Fiction". It is to be published later this year.
And I edited Woman magaxine until 30th. September when I resigned and came to live here in the country with my father, mother, and sister Tertia. I also advised Pearsons on 50 MSS books.
From April to the third week in December I was working almost continually at very high pressure, and had no energy to spare for this journal. I am taking it up again today in hope to incorporate it once more into my routine. There is a definite saving of time in dispensing with regular journal entries, but I find it is a useful activity to focus on my achievements, and it is pleasurable now and then to glance back. Though sometimes it is difficult to recall the person behind the words.
Since I came here, on top of work, I have been very much preoccupied and fretted in the superintendence of the repairs to this house. I consistently tell myself that I will never again work so hard, but in future will find time to read poetry regularly, to gather materials for a work on the fiction of the nineteenth century, and - ? - to study Latin.
I made £620 last year; more than ever I made in any previous year. This year, unless something goes wrong with my play "The Chancellor", I hope to make much more.
Today we were out earlyish for a walk. Few people about; probably in bed sleeping off the effects of over-indulgence in New Year celebrations. It was grey and quite cold. A sort of fine mist in the air, enough to feel on the skin, but not enough to make one wet. Everywhere very still. I liked to stop now and then just to enjoy the stillness, as if an invisible blanket had been laid over the world attenuating sound. Amusing incident when we passed through a dispersed flock of sheep whilst walking along a minor road. For some reason they gathered together and began to follow, right on our heels. An odd sensation. Presumably we were mistaken for farmers bringing food. Back home I have been browsing in old journals and imagining a successful future. Happy New Year!
Friday, 21 December 2018
Preposterous
Tuesday, December 21st., Victoria Grove, London.
The constant unsleeping watchfulness for verbal mistakes and slips and clumsiness in composition, necessitated by my post as editor of women's journalism, has sharpened and exasperated my susceptibilities to such a point that only by a great effort can I read anything now without noting such slips, however trifling. In spite of myself, my mind registers them as they occur, in no matter what writer's work. Such preposterous attention to the superficialities of style seriously interferes with the enjoyment of literature. There is scarcely an author, unless it be Henry James, whom I find flawless, and whom, therefore, I can read in perfect comfort.
The constant unsleeping watchfulness for verbal mistakes and slips and clumsiness in composition, necessitated by my post as editor of women's journalism, has sharpened and exasperated my susceptibilities to such a point that only by a great effort can I read anything now without noting such slips, however trifling. In spite of myself, my mind registers them as they occur, in no matter what writer's work. Such preposterous attention to the superficialities of style seriously interferes with the enjoyment of literature. There is scarcely an author, unless it be Henry James, whom I find flawless, and whom, therefore, I can read in perfect comfort.
Friday, 27 April 2018
Alternative ending
Wednesday, April 27th., 12B George Street, London.
By the last post last night I received the proofs of the first instalment in the Delineator of "Mr. Prohack". To my intense disgust I saw at once that they had cut it. Considering that the number of instalments and the precise length had been agreed by me in accordance with the editor's own suggestion, this absolutely disgusted me, and I have written to Pinker that I don't want to correct any more proofs.
Last evening I finished re-reading "Hilda Lessways" and made a start on "These Twain". H.L. isn't as good as "Clayhanger". I don't think that Hilda is quite sufficiently 'realised' to stand as the central character. Perhaps it was too bold of me to try to put myself inside the head of a woman. Of course I have my experience from editing Woman, and I have often bragged to friends (both sexes) that I know women well. I do! But too superficially for the purpose of effective fiction I now think. Still it was a good attempt. In many ways the most interesting character in the book is George Cannon. I know that I will enjoy T.T. more.
The other thing that occured to me during the night was that I could have made all the books 'better', and more credible, by a plot change. There is a scene where Edwin and Janet Orgreave are playing tennis together. Edwin has been told that Janet is 'waiting' for him, and is tempted by the idea of marriage to her. Given the way I developed Edwin's character I now think he would not have held out. I think that I should have allowed him to propose. He would have been happy for a while, then simply content but, at the back of his mind, would be the thought of Hilda. Then, when Hilda re-emerged with her son, there would have been tremendous potential for emotional conflict, misgiving and angst. Perhaps resolved eventually by Janet dying?
Last evening I finished re-reading "Hilda Lessways" and made a start on "These Twain". H.L. isn't as good as "Clayhanger". I don't think that Hilda is quite sufficiently 'realised' to stand as the central character. Perhaps it was too bold of me to try to put myself inside the head of a woman. Of course I have my experience from editing Woman, and I have often bragged to friends (both sexes) that I know women well. I do! But too superficially for the purpose of effective fiction I now think. Still it was a good attempt. In many ways the most interesting character in the book is George Cannon. I know that I will enjoy T.T. more.
The other thing that occured to me during the night was that I could have made all the books 'better', and more credible, by a plot change. There is a scene where Edwin and Janet Orgreave are playing tennis together. Edwin has been told that Janet is 'waiting' for him, and is tempted by the idea of marriage to her. Given the way I developed Edwin's character I now think he would not have held out. I think that I should have allowed him to propose. He would have been happy for a while, then simply content but, at the back of his mind, would be the thought of Hilda. Then, when Hilda re-emerged with her son, there would have been tremendous potential for emotional conflict, misgiving and angst. Perhaps resolved eventually by Janet dying?
Sunday, 28 January 2018
For posterity?
Thursday, January 28th., Victoria Grove, London.
I cannot conceive that any author should write, as the de Goncourts say they wrote, 'for posterity'. An artist works only to satisfy himself, and for the applause and appreciation neither of his fellows alive nor his fellows yet unborn. To assume that what you write may be of significance in the future (never mind the present) is surely the height of arrogance. Even if you think it, it strikes me as a failure of taste to say it.
I would not care a bilberry for posterity. I should be my own justest judge, from whom there would be no appeal; and having satisfied him (whether he was right or wrong) I should be content - as an artist. As a man, I should be disgusted if I could not earn plenty of money and the praise of the discriminating. Of course I can say these things with equanimity at the age of thirty, but will I look back on these journal entries in thirty years time and say, "How naive he was"?
I have not been able to get down to any serious work since I finished my little book on journalism for women. Partly a sort of reaction. Partly because I am busy at Woman. Partly because of this place which is inadequate for my purpose. Soon I will be moving to my new home at Fulham Park Gardens where the atmosphere will be more conducive to creativity. During these recent weeks of indolence in the matter of creative work I can feel, with a sense of satisfaction, the tide of unexpressed sensation rising higher and higher; soon I know It will break the dam of inactive habit which circumstances and a somewhat weak purpose have erected, and pour forth over a thousand sheets. It grows and rises of itself and I watch it lazily.
I cannot conceive that any author should write, as the de Goncourts say they wrote, 'for posterity'. An artist works only to satisfy himself, and for the applause and appreciation neither of his fellows alive nor his fellows yet unborn. To assume that what you write may be of significance in the future (never mind the present) is surely the height of arrogance. Even if you think it, it strikes me as a failure of taste to say it.
I would not care a bilberry for posterity. I should be my own justest judge, from whom there would be no appeal; and having satisfied him (whether he was right or wrong) I should be content - as an artist. As a man, I should be disgusted if I could not earn plenty of money and the praise of the discriminating. Of course I can say these things with equanimity at the age of thirty, but will I look back on these journal entries in thirty years time and say, "How naive he was"?
I have not been able to get down to any serious work since I finished my little book on journalism for women. Partly a sort of reaction. Partly because I am busy at Woman. Partly because of this place which is inadequate for my purpose. Soon I will be moving to my new home at Fulham Park Gardens where the atmosphere will be more conducive to creativity. During these recent weeks of indolence in the matter of creative work I can feel, with a sense of satisfaction, the tide of unexpressed sensation rising higher and higher; soon I know It will break the dam of inactive habit which circumstances and a somewhat weak purpose have erected, and pour forth over a thousand sheets. It grows and rises of itself and I watch it lazily.
Sunday, 17 December 2017
Theory and practice
Sunday, December 17th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.
I have a theory (not precisely new) that a man can rise superior to anything, but I'm damned if I can work it out in practice. I am of the worrying sort. Just now I am consumed with a fever to chuck up women's journalism utterly, and go in for fiction and criticism only. I could do it if I had the pluck of a louse; but having got used to a comparatively expensive way of living I haven't the courage to make the necessary sacrifice. Nevertheless I swear that I will get out of that damned office inside two years or shoot myself. And I always keep my oaths.
Not that I object to editing a woman's paper and looking after nursery notes. It is not that. I am in editorial control of my paper, but it is only one of several belonging to a company, and I can't tolerate working for a company unless i am managing director or God Almighty or something of that kind. Moreover, though I can get a diversion out of editing Woman, there are other things i want to do much more, and I'm not doing them, or not enough of them.
I have been reading Housman's "A Shropshire Lad" - immortal!
i have been wondering about how one would ascribe value to one person as against another. Let's say that in a hypothetical situation it was necessary for a group of people to 'sacrifice' one of their number so that the others could live. What criteria would they come up with? Age, educational attainment, popularity, physical attractiveness, gender, race, socail distinction, wealth ...... ? I was put in mind of this in an oblique way by reading an account of a man who had spent years in the Amazon jungle, living with a tribe of natives who had little contact with the outside world. They were largely devoid of possessions, died on average in their forties, had no concept of numbers, little interest in privacy, generally promiscuous and yet, apparently, content and routinely cheerful. This man had gone as a missionary to convert them to Christianity, but failed totally and ended up losing his own faith. That started me thinking about cultures we tend to describe as 'primitive' and how we might set about making cultural comparisons. Which led on to thinking of individuals. Perhaps the best way of ascribing value would be in terms of personal contentment? The least contented person gets the bullet in the head, and nobody misses him!
I have a theory (not precisely new) that a man can rise superior to anything, but I'm damned if I can work it out in practice. I am of the worrying sort. Just now I am consumed with a fever to chuck up women's journalism utterly, and go in for fiction and criticism only. I could do it if I had the pluck of a louse; but having got used to a comparatively expensive way of living I haven't the courage to make the necessary sacrifice. Nevertheless I swear that I will get out of that damned office inside two years or shoot myself. And I always keep my oaths.
Not that I object to editing a woman's paper and looking after nursery notes. It is not that. I am in editorial control of my paper, but it is only one of several belonging to a company, and I can't tolerate working for a company unless i am managing director or God Almighty or something of that kind. Moreover, though I can get a diversion out of editing Woman, there are other things i want to do much more, and I'm not doing them, or not enough of them.
I have been reading Housman's "A Shropshire Lad" - immortal!
i have been wondering about how one would ascribe value to one person as against another. Let's say that in a hypothetical situation it was necessary for a group of people to 'sacrifice' one of their number so that the others could live. What criteria would they come up with? Age, educational attainment, popularity, physical attractiveness, gender, race, socail distinction, wealth ...... ? I was put in mind of this in an oblique way by reading an account of a man who had spent years in the Amazon jungle, living with a tribe of natives who had little contact with the outside world. They were largely devoid of possessions, died on average in their forties, had no concept of numbers, little interest in privacy, generally promiscuous and yet, apparently, content and routinely cheerful. This man had gone as a missionary to convert them to Christianity, but failed totally and ended up losing his own faith. That started me thinking about cultures we tend to describe as 'primitive' and how we might set about making cultural comparisons. Which led on to thinking of individuals. Perhaps the best way of ascribing value would be in terms of personal contentment? The least contented person gets the bullet in the head, and nobody misses him!
Sunday, 26 January 2014
On 'pot-boilers'
Thursday, January 26th., St. Dunstan's Chambers, London.
Regent Street. The shops exhibit luxuries from all the ends of the earth, and, in the fine frosty afternoon, hundreds of people who had more than they needed, walked or drove up and down the fashionable street in search of something, anything, which they did not already possess. It was a beautiful sight for the sandwich men.
Sensational serials. Several people have cast missiles at me for troubling with such things. But why should I not write an exciting serial if I so desire? Exciting fiction is as much a form of art as any other sort of fiction. I finished my serial on Monday and I may say, quite without prejudice, that it is very good - ingenious, full of trepidations, and eloquent: those who begin it will finish it. I have a very good reason for this 'pot-boiling'. It is not my intention all my life to sit here editing a miserable female paper, or any other paper. In fact I have now had as much of editing as I want. My desire is to be moving on and I shall not remain at Woman a moment longer than I can help. But if I leave journalism I must find something else. That something else is fiction. It dawns upon me that fiction is my forte. But if I continued to turn out psychological treatises like "A Man from the North", I might earn some sort of reputation, but I should not, most emphatically, earn a livelihood. Therefore I must do, to begin with, the sort of fiction that will sell. I don't see that sensational fiction is any worse 'pot-boiling' than editing a weekly paper. And I know that I would vastly sooner do the fiction than the editing. It is nearer to my special faculty and I can get real fun out of it. But my great ambition at present is not to be tied to an office, and my efforts are directed to the breaking of theses chains.
Additionally for January 26th., see 'Last of the big gamblers' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/last-of-big-gamblers.html
Inside the gaming saloons (4 o'clock) I found a large crowd and many tables in full work. The crowd not so distinguished in appearance as I had (foolishly) expected. I saw few signs at the tables of suppressed or expressed excitement, though quite a large proportion of the people seemed to be gambling seriously. I had no intention of betting, but after I had watched several tables and grasped the details of roulette (30 and 40 I didn't attempt to grasp) I remained at one table, as if hypnotised; without knowing it I began to finger a 5-franc piece in my pocket, and then I became aware that I was going to bet. I knew I should bet some seconds before I formally decided to. I staked a 5-franc piece on an even chance and won. Like a provincial up from the country, who has heard tales of metropolitan rascality, I stood close to a croupier and kept a careful eye on my coin, and picked up the winnings without an instant's delay. I kept on playing, carefully, and always on even chances, for some time, and stopped when I had made a little money and went and had some tea. I didn't play again.
Regent Street. The shops exhibit luxuries from all the ends of the earth, and, in the fine frosty afternoon, hundreds of people who had more than they needed, walked or drove up and down the fashionable street in search of something, anything, which they did not already possess. It was a beautiful sight for the sandwich men.
Sensational serials. Several people have cast missiles at me for troubling with such things. But why should I not write an exciting serial if I so desire? Exciting fiction is as much a form of art as any other sort of fiction. I finished my serial on Monday and I may say, quite without prejudice, that it is very good - ingenious, full of trepidations, and eloquent: those who begin it will finish it. I have a very good reason for this 'pot-boiling'. It is not my intention all my life to sit here editing a miserable female paper, or any other paper. In fact I have now had as much of editing as I want. My desire is to be moving on and I shall not remain at Woman a moment longer than I can help. But if I leave journalism I must find something else. That something else is fiction. It dawns upon me that fiction is my forte. But if I continued to turn out psychological treatises like "A Man from the North", I might earn some sort of reputation, but I should not, most emphatically, earn a livelihood. Therefore I must do, to begin with, the sort of fiction that will sell. I don't see that sensational fiction is any worse 'pot-boiling' than editing a weekly paper. And I know that I would vastly sooner do the fiction than the editing. It is nearer to my special faculty and I can get real fun out of it. But my great ambition at present is not to be tied to an office, and my efforts are directed to the breaking of theses chains.
Additionally for January 26th., see 'Last of the big gamblers' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/last-of-big-gamblers.html
Inside the gaming saloons (4 o'clock) I found a large crowd and many tables in full work. The crowd not so distinguished in appearance as I had (foolishly) expected. I saw few signs at the tables of suppressed or expressed excitement, though quite a large proportion of the people seemed to be gambling seriously. I had no intention of betting, but after I had watched several tables and grasped the details of roulette (30 and 40 I didn't attempt to grasp) I remained at one table, as if hypnotised; without knowing it I began to finger a 5-franc piece in my pocket, and then I became aware that I was going to bet. I knew I should bet some seconds before I formally decided to. I staked a 5-franc piece on an even chance and won. Like a provincial up from the country, who has heard tales of metropolitan rascality, I stood close to a croupier and kept a careful eye on my coin, and picked up the winnings without an instant's delay. I kept on playing, carefully, and always on even chances, for some time, and stopped when I had made a little money and went and had some tea. I didn't play again.
Saturday, 17 November 2012
Woman
Tuesday, November 17th., London.
To-day a business crisis which has been active for a fortnight ended with a definite arrangement that I should accept the editorship of Woman. A fortnight of secret conclaves suddenly hushed at the sound of a door opening; of poring over figures and lists of names and correspondence; of devising schemes, each one superseded by a better, a more perfect one; of planning and counter-planning; of saying the same thing over and over again to a colleague merely because it was impossible to leave the subject and impossible to say anything fresh; of publicly expressed hopes and private pessimism; of forced jocularities; of feverish, incessant thinking by day and night, awake and asleep, walking or sitting, silent or speaking. Almost my first taste of a strictly business, personal anxiety! A few years of such anxiety (the lot of many men), even a year of it, even a month, would drive me, I fancy, to clerkhood again, just for the sake of being free from responsibility and worry.
Edith Evors, my new secretary, is the first genuine middle-class bachelor woman, living alone in London lodgings, that I have been intimately familiar with. A tall woman, slightly under thirty, with big limbs and a large, honest, red-cheeked face, and a quiet, intense voice. Transparently conscientious; with little self-reliance, but a capacity for admiring self-reliance in others. She lives in Bloomsbury, and at night goes to socialist and anarchist lectures. "It is dreadful", she said to me today, "to think how little one can do!" She cannot make her own clothes, though her earnings are only 30 shillings a week, and she grudges "every moment spent in their repair". But personally she is neat enough in an unadorned, aggressively simple way. She is serious, earnest, practical in small affairs, and visionary in great ones. Full of easily aroused pity and indignation. Physically strong and healthy.
Last night, Young, who is an amateur palmist, examined my hand. He diagnosed my character with considerable accuracy; and, prying into the future, found there wealth, but not a long existence. The "life-line", indeed, puzzled him.
Yesterday I finished reading Somerset Maughan's "Of Human Bondage". I consider it to be a masterpiece. If it is largely autobiographical, as is widely believed, then Maughan deserves great credit for his bravery in thus displaying his innermost feelings. Philip Carey is a completely authentic character, and his journey of self-discovery must touch a chord in many men of a certain age; most definitely it did in me! For me, the only slightly false note was Philip's persistence in his relationship to the awful Mildred; surely no-one would submit to such repeated personal abasement? I have seen it suggested that Mildred is depicted as female only for the sake of convention, to escape the wrath of the censor, and that the relationship portrayed was actually a homosexual one: perhaps that would make Philip's obsession, self-disgust, and chronic ambivalence more credible?
To-day a business crisis which has been active for a fortnight ended with a definite arrangement that I should accept the editorship of Woman. A fortnight of secret conclaves suddenly hushed at the sound of a door opening; of poring over figures and lists of names and correspondence; of devising schemes, each one superseded by a better, a more perfect one; of planning and counter-planning; of saying the same thing over and over again to a colleague merely because it was impossible to leave the subject and impossible to say anything fresh; of publicly expressed hopes and private pessimism; of forced jocularities; of feverish, incessant thinking by day and night, awake and asleep, walking or sitting, silent or speaking. Almost my first taste of a strictly business, personal anxiety! A few years of such anxiety (the lot of many men), even a year of it, even a month, would drive me, I fancy, to clerkhood again, just for the sake of being free from responsibility and worry.
Arnold Bennett and Late-Victorian "Woman" by Clotilde De Stasio
Edith Evors, my new secretary, is the first genuine middle-class bachelor woman, living alone in London lodgings, that I have been intimately familiar with. A tall woman, slightly under thirty, with big limbs and a large, honest, red-cheeked face, and a quiet, intense voice. Transparently conscientious; with little self-reliance, but a capacity for admiring self-reliance in others. She lives in Bloomsbury, and at night goes to socialist and anarchist lectures. "It is dreadful", she said to me today, "to think how little one can do!" She cannot make her own clothes, though her earnings are only 30 shillings a week, and she grudges "every moment spent in their repair". But personally she is neat enough in an unadorned, aggressively simple way. She is serious, earnest, practical in small affairs, and visionary in great ones. Full of easily aroused pity and indignation. Physically strong and healthy.
Last night, Young, who is an amateur palmist, examined my hand. He diagnosed my character with considerable accuracy; and, prying into the future, found there wealth, but not a long existence. The "life-line", indeed, puzzled him.
Yesterday I finished reading Somerset Maughan's "Of Human Bondage". I consider it to be a masterpiece. If it is largely autobiographical, as is widely believed, then Maughan deserves great credit for his bravery in thus displaying his innermost feelings. Philip Carey is a completely authentic character, and his journey of self-discovery must touch a chord in many men of a certain age; most definitely it did in me! For me, the only slightly false note was Philip's persistence in his relationship to the awful Mildred; surely no-one would submit to such repeated personal abasement? I have seen it suggested that Mildred is depicted as female only for the sake of convention, to escape the wrath of the censor, and that the relationship portrayed was actually a homosexual one: perhaps that would make Philip's obsession, self-disgust, and chronic ambivalence more credible?
William Somerset Maugham (1874-1965) was born in Paris. His father was a wealthy solicitor, but by the time he was ten, both William's parents were dead and he was sent to live with his uncle, the Rev. Henry Maugham, in Whitstable, Kent. After an education at King's School, Canterbury, and Heildelberg University in Germany, Maugham became a medical student at St. Thomas Hospital, London. While training to be a doctor Maugham worked as an obstetric clerk in the slums of Lambeth. He used these experiences to help him write his first novel and subsequently decided to abandon medicine and become a full-time writer. On the outbreak of the First World War, Maugham, now aged forty, joined a Red Cross ambulance unit in France. While serving on the Western Front he met the 22 year old American, Gerald Haxton. The two men became lovers and lived together for the next thirty years. Maugham had sexual relationships with both men and women and in 1915, Syrie Wellcome, the daughter of Dr. Thomas Barnardo, gave birth to his child. Her husband, Henry Wellcome, cited Maugham as co-respondent in divorce proceedings. After the divorce in 1916, Maugham married Syrie but continued to live with Gerald Haxton. During the war, Maugham's best-known novel, Of Human Bondage (1915) was published.
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