Wednesday, March 24th., Villa des Nefliers.
Arrival of four books today ordered from the Mercure de France, nicely bound. Astonishing how much simple and perfect joy can be bought for 15 fr. 60 c.! The anticipatory pleasure of unwrapping the parcel is almost worth that. And then to caress and smell the books ... I don't buy half enough books! Marguerite asked me today, playfully, how I would choose if the choice was between her and new books. I gave her the answer she wanted of course. The real answer I kept to myself.
My "Books and Persons" articles are just starting in the New Age. I am using the pseudonym Jacob Tonson. "Buried Alive" is to be published soon. I have struck into a golden vein of productivity.
Fine walks in the forest. Sunshine. Warmth. Cutting new books. A good patch of "The Old Wives' Tale". Disgust at the opposition lying in the Peckham election. Great fun in reading the account of the 200 million franc krach by a financial swindler in all the papers today. Another slice of my article on London stage. Embroidery design for Marguerite. Thus my day.
Showing posts with label Mercure de France. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mercure de France. Show all posts
Sunday, 24 March 2019
Saturday, 23 February 2019
Diversely diverting
Saturday, February 23rd., Chiltern Court, London.
Last week, determined to buy a new French book, I went into a large bookshop in Paris, opening and shutting the door with extreme rapidity because of the intense cold. I made the tour of that shop six times, without finding a single book attractive enough to draw money from my pocket. There were plenty of fine old-fashioned works; but either I possessed them, or I had read them, or I positively intend to die without reading them. I noticed that "Maurice" by Constantin Weyer, which has just won the Goncourt Prize was in its hundred and fifteenth thousand, and this fact decided me to deprive myself of it.
Lacking the moral courage to depart without a purchase, I bought "An Anthology of Ronsard and his School" edited by an excellent critic, Auguste Dorchain, and I am now charmed with this book of 500 small pages; it is highly recommendable. At the time I concluded that interesting modern French literature had, for the month, ceased to exist. I was wrong. Two days after my sterile adventure there was published, and I received, an extremely stimulating affair: Paul Leautaud's "Passe-Temps". This book is not merely worth 12 francs, but 12 shillings of the spare cash of any lettered person who can read French. I have performed the act known as 'revelling' in it.
Leautaud, whilst a pillar of the staid Mercure de France, is nevertheless the terrible infant of French literature. He will write down anything that comes into his head. Some of what comes into his head has to be represented by dots. Much is grossly and wilfully unjust. But who minds? Not I at any rate. The present book is made up of sketches, bons mots, remarks, and anecdotes. There is a delicate account of a young stray dog of the female sex who became the mistress of the author's study. He says that for three months he wrote nothing, devoting all his evenings to the contemplation of the animal. She had a gourmand's passion for books and he bestowed on her 20 volumes of the (alleged) poetry of the fecund ballad-monger Paul Fort, and at the rate of three a week she ate them all. Not a leaf was left. "Rarely," says he, "has a literary work been so appreciated." Leautaud's "Pastimes" make a morsel than which nothing more diversely diverting is likely to be published for a long time to come.
It has quite cheered me up.
Last week, determined to buy a new French book, I went into a large bookshop in Paris, opening and shutting the door with extreme rapidity because of the intense cold. I made the tour of that shop six times, without finding a single book attractive enough to draw money from my pocket. There were plenty of fine old-fashioned works; but either I possessed them, or I had read them, or I positively intend to die without reading them. I noticed that "Maurice" by Constantin Weyer, which has just won the Goncourt Prize was in its hundred and fifteenth thousand, and this fact decided me to deprive myself of it.Lacking the moral courage to depart without a purchase, I bought "An Anthology of Ronsard and his School" edited by an excellent critic, Auguste Dorchain, and I am now charmed with this book of 500 small pages; it is highly recommendable. At the time I concluded that interesting modern French literature had, for the month, ceased to exist. I was wrong. Two days after my sterile adventure there was published, and I received, an extremely stimulating affair: Paul Leautaud's "Passe-Temps". This book is not merely worth 12 francs, but 12 shillings of the spare cash of any lettered person who can read French. I have performed the act known as 'revelling' in it.Leautaud, whilst a pillar of the staid Mercure de France, is nevertheless the terrible infant of French literature. He will write down anything that comes into his head. Some of what comes into his head has to be represented by dots. Much is grossly and wilfully unjust. But who minds? Not I at any rate. The present book is made up of sketches, bons mots, remarks, and anecdotes. There is a delicate account of a young stray dog of the female sex who became the mistress of the author's study. He says that for three months he wrote nothing, devoting all his evenings to the contemplation of the animal. She had a gourmand's passion for books and he bestowed on her 20 volumes of the (alleged) poetry of the fecund ballad-monger Paul Fort, and at the rate of three a week she ate them all. Not a leaf was left. "Rarely," says he, "has a literary work been so appreciated." Leautaud's "Pastimes" make a morsel than which nothing more diversely diverting is likely to be published for a long time to come.It has quite cheered me up.
Tuesday, 23 October 2018
A rich vein
Wednesday, October 23rd., Villa des Nefliers.
In reading Stendhal's unpublished journal in the Mercure de France, it seemed to me that in my journal I waste a great deal of time in the proper construction of sentences. Quite unnecessary to do this in the recording of impressions. On the other hand, suppose my journals were to be published at some time in the future? Am I content, with this possibility (though slight) in mind that my writing should be merely impressionistic? It depends on the purpose of the journal, and that is something I have not, as yet, grappled with effectively. Certainly impressions were my original idea but as my reputation grows why not think that even these writings may be of interest? Better impressions than nothing at all, but well-constructed sentences are a pleasure to the writer as well as the reader; so if I have the time why do a thing less well than is in my power?
Still much rain here. A perfect baptism of damp this morning in the forest, though not actually raining. The forest all yellow and brown. Good fungus weather. A lot of those large toadstools with a bright red cap which I believe are poisonous. No idea what they are called. Leaves falling continuously. Horse chestnuts quite yellow. Sound of water occasionally dislodged from trees by the wind. I feel like an intruder when walking alone in the forest in this weather.
I have written over 2000 words of the third chapter of "The Old Wives' Tale" yesterday and today. I planned the chapter perfectly yesterday morning in the forest. There is no doubt that I am established in a routine of excellent work at present. If I continue in this vein the book will be my best yet, and my journal may start to seem more significant!
In reading Stendhal's unpublished journal in the Mercure de France, it seemed to me that in my journal I waste a great deal of time in the proper construction of sentences. Quite unnecessary to do this in the recording of impressions. On the other hand, suppose my journals were to be published at some time in the future? Am I content, with this possibility (though slight) in mind that my writing should be merely impressionistic? It depends on the purpose of the journal, and that is something I have not, as yet, grappled with effectively. Certainly impressions were my original idea but as my reputation grows why not think that even these writings may be of interest? Better impressions than nothing at all, but well-constructed sentences are a pleasure to the writer as well as the reader; so if I have the time why do a thing less well than is in my power?
Still much rain here. A perfect baptism of damp this morning in the forest, though not actually raining. The forest all yellow and brown. Good fungus weather. A lot of those large toadstools with a bright red cap which I believe are poisonous. No idea what they are called. Leaves falling continuously. Horse chestnuts quite yellow. Sound of water occasionally dislodged from trees by the wind. I feel like an intruder when walking alone in the forest in this weather.
I have written over 2000 words of the third chapter of "The Old Wives' Tale" yesterday and today. I planned the chapter perfectly yesterday morning in the forest. There is no doubt that I am established in a routine of excellent work at present. If I continue in this vein the book will be my best yet, and my journal may start to seem more significant!
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