Praise indeed

 Monday, November 30th., George Street, London.

 

I had a letter from Gide a few days ago, and wrote back to him today.

 

His letter gave me the greatest satisfaction, and I told him so. No appreciation that I have ever received, Conrad's included, has given me greater pleasure than Gide's. He has the idea that I have adopted a new manner of writing. Well, perhaps I have but it is rather that I am older, a little wiser, and rather less constrained by convention; at least that is how I see it. There were definite symptoms in "The Pretty Lady" and it may be that was where he got the idea from. Some younger men are inclined to think it my best novel; it isn't.

 

My film is progressing and I am visiting ateliers. This first film will be nothing but when I have broken down the outer defences of the trade I hope to do something better. I told Gide so, and also mentioned the flurry of activity around my work in Paris at the moment. Probably he already knew. That man Lanoire has translated several of my books and Grasset is to publish them. God knows how they will read in French.

 

 

My women

Sunday, November 29th., Cadogan Square, London.

One of those dismal, grey sort of days which make one long for warmth and sunshine. I went out for a walk first thing to get some ideas; didn't get any; just got cold. 

Domestic problems are on my mind and I found myself thinking about women in general and my women in particular. What I mean is the women in my books. I must have invented dozens, if not hundreds, by now and it has never before occurred to me to wonder if they have a sort of common denominator, a fundamental resemblance. I suppose they must have as they are all the product of a single brain. But then again my attitude to women must have fluctuated over the years; indeed I know it has. Do my female characters in any way reflect the way I am thinking about women in general as i invent them. I suppose so. Perhaps even within a single book, O.W.T. for example, a careful reader who also had some insight into my personality might see interesting variations. If I had time I could look back through my women and discover things about myself. But I never will have time because there is always the need to earn more money to support the current (rather expensive) woman, not to mention my estranged wife. They will be the death of me!

The other worry is about this house because the lease is coming to an end and will not be extended in spite of my best efforts. Where shall we go? I foresee battles ahead. It brings to mind the conflict between Edwin and Hilda in "These Twain" over where to live. Prescience perhaps?

I think my favourite female character was a very minor one - Florence Simcox, the champion female clog dancer. She made a lasting impression on Edwin and on me as well. I have often fantasised about meeting her in real life. What an exciting handful she would have been! I often think of her at night when I can't sleep, and some of my daydreams have been very stimulating. I shoud have resurrected her as a character in a short story.

A Man from the North

 ENOCH ARNOLD BENNETT, 1867 - 1931

Here lies a man, from common clay descended,

Who took the common people of the clay

And from their lives of grime and greatness blended

Created Life that shall not pass away.

 

Here lies a child who penned with childish pleasure

The pageantry before his eyes unfurled,

The pomps and shows, the luxury and leisure, 

The gauds and glitter of the rich man's world.

 

Yet still could sing, with sympathy unblunted,

With understanding welded doubly sure,

The saga of the straitened and the stunted,

The patience and the pathos of the poor.

 

Here lies a sage who saw in things material

No outward workings  of some cosmic plan -

But each day a chapter in some breathless serial

Written by fate for the delight of man.

Here lies a jester with a sense of duty,

A master craftsman in his art engrossed,

A steadfast friend, a worshipper of beauty, 

A kindly critic and a perfect host.

Here lies, in fine, a connoisseur of living

For whom romance inhered in every breath;

Shall not his soul go forth without misgiving

To greet the great adventure which is death?