Thoughts

Wednesday, February 3rd., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

"Leonora" is in every way a much better book than "Anna". What women of forty ought to concern themselves with is not the point. What they do concern themselves with they will know when they reach that interesting age; in the meantime they should make no assumptions. That women of forty, generally, do regret the past is a fact. That they long to be young again is an undoubted fact. That they are particularly, peculiarly, & specially passionate & prone to sexual excitement is incontrovertible. It was the discovery of these piquant truths which led me to write "Leonora". I didn't conceive the idea and then search round for confirmation. The reverse. I certainly do not think that 'love' is a woman's whole existence, as does at least one of my correspondents. It was certainly not Leonora's whole existence. She was extremely addicted to the higher walks of housewifery. But I think that 'love' is the major part of woman's existence. It is a good part of man's, but differently. I think there are only two things in the world really worth having - sexual love & the love of children. Over & over again, in a career intimately mixed up with many & diverse women, I have found that women with a tendency to 'sit on' love have ended suddenly & swiftly with marriage & become even more domesticated than their sisters. Just some thoughts on women that have arisen in my mind lately.


I have been a little under the weather for the last few days. Just a cold in the head but it is surprising what an impact it has on the mood. Of course it becomes difficult to sleep with any comfort and hence one is perpetually tired. I started to feel a little better yesterday and hoped to see further improvement this morning, but had a minor relapse. Drinks of hot lemon and honey I find to be soothing and restorative.

The ideas of the average decently-informed person are so warped, and out of perspective, and ignorant, and entirely perverse and wrong and crude, on nearly every mortal subject, that the task of discussing anything with him or her seriously and fully and to the end, is simply appalling. This has struck me several times recently in this hotel, and I have recoiled from a discussion. The state of that average person's mind can scarcely be contemplated by me, in certain moods. In fact I doubt the value of discussion generally. In my experience discussion usually amounts to repeated statements by the participants of their views. I have rarely felt that I have changed anyone's mind by talking to them. I know that no-one has changed mine. I think this is partly because a 'discussion' is necessarily an adversarial affair, and people hate to feel they have been defeated. Better it is to read alternative views, mull over them and, if so inclined, amend one's views accordingly.

The funeral feast given by Catherine Ivanovna in "Crime and Punishment" is a magnificent piece of work, both as serious accurate observation and as brutal humour.

A year in review

Friday, January 8th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I finished the third chapter of "A Great Man". I have written worse.

In the evening I went to the Concert Rouge and heard Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, badly played, but it had an excellent effect on me. Why are some people, like myself, moved by music whilst others are apparently indifferent? I find this puzzling and it makes me think about how little we have in common with our fellow humans once the superficialities are stripped away. I doubt if we even 'see' the same world, and for certain communication one to another is largely ineffectual. In a way, it occurs to me, the beauty of fiction is that the world created is common to both the writer and the reader; if well written of course.I think that Conrad is particularly good in this respect.

I forgot to set down on the 1st., the brief record of last year. I wrote five sixths of "Leonora" and twelve short stories. Four books of mine were published. The great fact illustrating my commercial progress was that the Windsor Magazine gave me a commission for six short stories. I did nothing in the way of drama.

I did practically no work between January 15th., and March 15th., when I was travelling in Algeria etc. Returning from Algeria i spent a fortnight or so in England preparatory to settling in Paris. Then between April 1st and June 30th. I wrote nearly all "Leonora". At the end of June I went to England and messed about till September 18th. doing scarcely any work - a summer cut to pieces and wasted and therefore not a pleasant one. returning to Paris I spent 10 days in taking and furnishing a flat; then I started work and I have worked ever since. I propose to work almost without intermission at any rate until July 30th.

I bought "The Gates of Wrath" (Tauchnitz edition) and read some of it. Its smartness and clarity prevent me from being quite honestly ashamed of it.

Authorial interchange

Wednesday, September 27th., Les Sablons.

I finished another short story today, "The Long Lost Uncle", and sent it off to the typists.

I went to Paris on Monday and returned yesterday, and again felt very strongly that a few months of Paris would suit me.

I read Philpotts's new book of stories "Knock at a Venture", and wrote to him about it today, and today I received a long letter from him about my book, "Sacred and Profane Love". Excellent reciprocity! His praise is very simple and detailed and notable, but on the whole I am inclined to think he doesn't like the book as well as "Leonora".


Altogether I must have written 4,000 words today.

On 'love'

Wednesday, February 3rd., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

"Leonora" is in every way a much better book than "Anna". What women of forty ought to concern themselves with is not the point. What they do concern themselves with they will know when they reach that interesting age; in the meantime they should make no assumptions. That women of forty, generally, do regret the past is an undoubted fact. That they long to be young again is an undoubted fact. That they are particularly, peculiarly, & specially passionate & prone to sexual excitement is an undoubted fact. It was the discovery of these piquant truths which led me to write "Leonora". I didn't conceive the idea and then search round for confirmation. The reverse. I certainly do not think that 'love' is a woman's whole existence, as does at least one of my correspondents. It was certainly not Leonora's whole existence. She was extremely addicted to the higher walks of housewifery. But I think that 'love' is the major part of woman's existence. As it is of man's. I think there are only two things in the world really worth having - sexual love & the love of children. Over & over again, in a career intimately mixed up with many & diverse women, I have found that women with a tendency to 'sit on' love have ended suddenly & swiftly with marriage & become even more domesticated than their sisters. 

I have been a little under the weather for the last few days. Just a cold in the head but it is surprising what an impact it has on the mood. Of course it becomes difficult to sleep with any comfort and hence one is perpetually tired. I started to feel a little better yesterday and hoped to see further improvement this morning, but had a minor relapse. Drinks of hot lemon and honey I find to be soothing and restorative.

The ideas of the average decently-informed person are so warped, and out of perspective, and ignorant, and entirely perverse and wrong and crude, on nearly every mortal subject, that the task of discussing anything with him seriously and fully and to the end, is simply appalling. This has struck me several times recently in this hotel, and I have recoiled from a discussion. The state of that average person's mind can scarcely be contemplated by me, in certain moods.

The funeral feast given by Catherine Ivanovna in "Crime and Punishment" is a magnificent piece of work, both as serious accurate observation and as brutal humour.

Today I began Act III of the play, and wrote 2,000 words.



Additionally for February 3rd., see 'An Atmospheric setting'

Following the timetable

Wednesday, January 27th., Hotel Belvedere, Vevey.

Finished today the fifth 'deed' of "Denry the Audacious". It is pretty good. probably too good for a serial. Also received a copy of the third edition of "The Old Wives' Tale", and began to cut passages of it so as to make it short enough for Tauchnitz. Not as difficult as I expected it to be, but nevertheless a desolating and unsatisfactory business. Arthur Waugh wrote me that it was 'a sacrilege'.

Although I now do more work, more regularly than I ever did, I feel more tired more definitely and more consciously than I did four or five years ago. I remember when I was writing "Leonora" at the Hotel du Quai Voltaire, I used to go out into the Rue de Rivoli (towards the end of the book) with a sensation as if the top of my head would come off. But I did not recognise it as fatigue, simply as the result of worry, a nuisance. I can now work hard all morning and I feel tired, and I know that if I kept on after lunch I should probably be ill. But by consciously refusing to think of my work, by vegetating, I can be sure that by tea-time I shall be restored, and can work again for a bit without letting myself in for a bilious attack. But I have to menager myself.

On Monday and yesterday afternoons I wrote the first chapter of a book about novel writing and the fiction-reading public, which will appear in pieces over Jacob Tonson's name. I was most enthusiastic over it. I calculate that in twenty weeks it will be done, and a striking book ready to be published. This is an extra. The notion probably came to me from my instinctive hatred of wasting newspaper articles. I hate to think that anything I write is bad enough, or fragmentary enough, to be lost forever in the files of a paper.

I am writing a pretty good lot but I am not doing much else. Not yet at the end of the second volume of "Les Origines" - in two months. No other reading, except newspapers as usual, and bits of Poe. Rather startled by the first-classness of some of Poe's lyrics, such as "The Haunted Palace".

In weather the season continues bad. Two days of fog or mist then one day of splendid sunshine. And so on. No snow on the south face of the mountain. In the mountain, in the protected folds, large quantities of snow. I go walks there, and follow tracks made by an animal alone - I don't know what animal. When there is the least danger of slipping I think: "If I fell and sprained my ankle it would probably mean my death." This is quite exciting, half pleasant, half unpleasant. When venturing up a steep slope to find a possible path, I think: "I ought not to do this." The great danger is certainly that of exposure after an accident.

I am always meaning to write character sketches of people in the hotel - as exercise - but I never do. The fact is that to write a 65,000 word book, full of novel incident, in two months, and a showy travaillee article once a week, leaves one with not much energy. The timetable has to be followed with exactitude, and it is assez juste.

A middle-aged Dutchman instructs me in billiards most evenings.

Additionally for January 27th., see 'A practical philosopher' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/a-practical-philosopher.html

"I've driven these roads for eight-and-twenty year, and the only pal I've found is Cod Liver Oil. From September to March I takes it, and I never has rheumatism and I never has colds nor nothing o' that sort. I give it to my children ever since they was born, and now I'm blest if they don't cry for it."
He finished; he had imparted his wisdom, delivered his message, and with the fine instinct denied to so many literary artists, he knew when to be silent. We asked him to stop, and he did so without a word. "Good night," we said; but he had done with speech for that evening, and gave us no reply. We alighted. The bus rolled away into the mirror-like vista of the street.