Friday, November 30th., 12b George Street, London.
I have been lecturing my nephew Richard, by letter, on the evils of drink. His father is an alcoholic and I noticed on a recent visit that Richard is drinking more than is good for him. There is a tendency to alcoholism in the family. No doubt he will simply consign my suggestion to the waste paper basket but I felt impelled to try. I used the example of my old friend Shufflebotham, who Richard has met. He comes here sometimes to see me and I press him to swear that he will henceforth abstain, but within an hour he is creeping out to get a drink somewhere thinking I am deceived. I am not deceived. It is pathetic, tragic. No victim of alcohol ever suspects that he is a victim until it is too late.
I have now definitely commited myself to take 75 Cadogan Square. It is rather large for a 'single' man but stylish and comfortable, and I can afford it. It is not so central as this but it is the best I could get. There were no flats that would suit me. It is a large house and I am subletting the top floor (four small rooms) to my secretary Miss Nerney and her mother. It is an immense advantage to have your secretary on the spot. There are two staircases. I shall still have three floors and a basement to myself. I shall leave here at or about Christmas, but Christmas itself I am spending with the Wells's.
I have embarked on a new morning regime in anticipation of this change of life. I do all my serious toil first, ie. I put on my jaeger suit and do nothing else. I do not wash, shave, clean teeth, bathe, dress or anything! By 11.30 (three and a half hours) my serious toil is accomplished, and I am free for oddments for the rest of the day. I can do more like this, and easier and better. true, I am not really dressed until 12.30 but I see no correspondence nor receive any messages until work is done.
Friday, 30 November 2018
Thursday, 29 November 2018
On Hemingway
Thursday, November 29th., Cadogan Square, London.
Ernest Hemingway is a youngish American whose work, in short stories, began to impress me first about a couple of years ago. He has now published a novel of the war "A Farewell to Arms" which is first rate. It deals with the Italian front. Its detail is as marvellous as any yet given. The description of the wounding of the hero in a bombardment is as tremendously effective as anything current. In fact I seriously question whether this description has been equalled. Its dialogue is masterly in reproductive realism, and its detachment is perfect. No flush and no fever in this novel; but the sane calmness of a spectator who combines deep sympathy with a breadth and impartiality of vision.
The book is hard, almost metallic, glittering, blinding by the reflections of its bright surface, utterly free of any sentimentality. A strange and original book. Whatever it may not do to you, it will convince you of its honesty and veracity. It is a superb performance. For me, Hemingway's greatest gift is to put you, his reader, completely 'inside' his central character. His bullfighting stories, for example, have brought me as near to a bull-ring as I ever wish to be, and I still recall a story about trout fishing (I have never fished) which was so effective that I could 'feel' the cold water swirl around my legs, and the surge as the trout took the bait
Incidentally, Hemingway, while often tactful in his omissions, permits himself a freedom of expression hitherto unexampled in Anglo-Saxon fiction printed for general sale. Some readers will object to it. I don't. I should think we have reached that stage in our cultural development when it is perfectly reasonable for a writer to put into his chacters' mouths words which everyone knows but publishers have dared not print, fearing a backlash from the entrenched and narrow-minded.
This afternoon I awoke from my regular nap, saw that the sun was shining (it had rained all morning), glanced at my watch, and immediately got ready to walk out. Only when I had been out for about twenty minutes did I start to think something was amiss. I looked at my watch again and saw that it was in fact an hour earlier than I thought - I must have slept for only about ten minutes. Still, I felt rested and enjoyed the walk - felt as if I had somehow stolen an hour.
Ernest Hemingway is a youngish American whose work, in short stories, began to impress me first about a couple of years ago. He has now published a novel of the war "A Farewell to Arms" which is first rate. It deals with the Italian front. Its detail is as marvellous as any yet given. The description of the wounding of the hero in a bombardment is as tremendously effective as anything current. In fact I seriously question whether this description has been equalled. Its dialogue is masterly in reproductive realism, and its detachment is perfect. No flush and no fever in this novel; but the sane calmness of a spectator who combines deep sympathy with a breadth and impartiality of vision.
The book is hard, almost metallic, glittering, blinding by the reflections of its bright surface, utterly free of any sentimentality. A strange and original book. Whatever it may not do to you, it will convince you of its honesty and veracity. It is a superb performance. For me, Hemingway's greatest gift is to put you, his reader, completely 'inside' his central character. His bullfighting stories, for example, have brought me as near to a bull-ring as I ever wish to be, and I still recall a story about trout fishing (I have never fished) which was so effective that I could 'feel' the cold water swirl around my legs, and the surge as the trout took the bait
Incidentally, Hemingway, while often tactful in his omissions, permits himself a freedom of expression hitherto unexampled in Anglo-Saxon fiction printed for general sale. Some readers will object to it. I don't. I should think we have reached that stage in our cultural development when it is perfectly reasonable for a writer to put into his chacters' mouths words which everyone knows but publishers have dared not print, fearing a backlash from the entrenched and narrow-minded.
This afternoon I awoke from my regular nap, saw that the sun was shining (it had rained all morning), glanced at my watch, and immediately got ready to walk out. Only when I had been out for about twenty minutes did I start to think something was amiss. I looked at my watch again and saw that it was in fact an hour earlier than I thought - I must have slept for only about ten minutes. Still, I felt rested and enjoyed the walk - felt as if I had somehow stolen an hour.
Wednesday, 28 November 2018
Doing one's duty
Monday, November 28th., Cadogan Square, London.
Doran, Jules Godby, Ellery Sedgwick and daughter Henrietta, Humbert Wolfe and Mrs. Belloc Lowndes came to tea, and baby. Baby and gramophone do nothing whatever to promote high-brow conversation.
I dined at the Piccadilly Hotel restaurant with Harry Preston, to meet the Prince of Wales. Very affable. Normally I would go out of my way to avoid any contact with 'royalty' as I regard the institution as an anachronism. I was simply humouring Harry who is an old-fashioned monarchist, and would be deeply wounded (and offended) if I told him my views. I got away with a bare minimum of obsequious behaviour, the merest hint of a bow. To be honest I felt rather sorry for the man who must have been putting on a show since he was first displayed in public. As a public person myself I have some idea of the strain involved. There must be times when he wishes to just throw it all over.
Doran, Jules Godby, Ellery Sedgwick and daughter Henrietta, Humbert Wolfe and Mrs. Belloc Lowndes came to tea, and baby. Baby and gramophone do nothing whatever to promote high-brow conversation.
I dined at the Piccadilly Hotel restaurant with Harry Preston, to meet the Prince of Wales. Very affable. Normally I would go out of my way to avoid any contact with 'royalty' as I regard the institution as an anachronism. I was simply humouring Harry who is an old-fashioned monarchist, and would be deeply wounded (and offended) if I told him my views. I got away with a bare minimum of obsequious behaviour, the merest hint of a bow. To be honest I felt rather sorry for the man who must have been putting on a show since he was first displayed in public. As a public person myself I have some idea of the strain involved. There must be times when he wishes to just throw it all over.
Tuesday, 27 November 2018
An artist
Saturday, November 27th., Cadogan Square, London.
Two good days work. Very tired last evening and slept particularly well. In fact I was late getting up. Dorothy and I dined at home which was, for me, a welcome and pleasant change. Afterwards came in Eric Kennington and Mrs. ditto, Arthur Waley and Alec Shepeler.
Eric K. is very shy but he is a delightful man. He fought on the Western Front but was badly wounded and sent home in 1915. Eric brought Lawrence's £30 book "The Seven Pillars" to show me. he is the art editor. It is not very good book-making; very fine illustrations in it, many of them coloured, and lots of lovely drawings by Roberts. But most of the illustrations are thoroughly out of place in the book and spoil the look of it. It seems that Lawrence has kept Kennington and Roberts, not to mention Wadsworth, pretty busy on it for several years.
Two good days work. Very tired last evening and slept particularly well. In fact I was late getting up. Dorothy and I dined at home which was, for me, a welcome and pleasant change. Afterwards came in Eric Kennington and Mrs. ditto, Arthur Waley and Alec Shepeler.
Eric K. is very shy but he is a delightful man. He fought on the Western Front but was badly wounded and sent home in 1915. Eric brought Lawrence's £30 book "The Seven Pillars" to show me. he is the art editor. It is not very good book-making; very fine illustrations in it, many of them coloured, and lots of lovely drawings by Roberts. But most of the illustrations are thoroughly out of place in the book and spoil the look of it. It seems that Lawrence has kept Kennington and Roberts, not to mention Wadsworth, pretty busy on it for several years.
Monday, 26 November 2018
Raining
Tuesday, November 26th., Les Sablons.
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Yesterday I walked to Fontainebleau in the pouring rain, and walked in and about the town for over two hours with a house agent looking at possible houses. I saw one small one surrounded by a walled garden that might suit. Distinct pleasure in examining these houses. I fell immediately in love with the one I liked, and at once, in my mind, arranged it as it ought to be. Perhaps a little arrogant to make a bald statement like that but it is how I feel. I have a very strong belief in myself and always tend to think that my way of doing things is the best. It causes problems sometimes between Marguerite and myself as she also is quite strong willed, but not as strong as me!
I lunched at the Cygne, had coffee at a cafe, and walked all the way home - and it never stopped raining! Then after tea I wrote 1,300 words of the "The Old Wives' Tale". This morning while the whole place was being upset with preparations for our departure, I wrote 2 to 300 words more of the novel, and this afternoon I packed my trunk and arranged my papers. That I should have worked so easily at my novel in all this mess shows how it has got hold of me, or I of it.
Yesterday I walked to Fontainebleau in the pouring rain, and walked in and about the town for over two hours with a house agent looking at possible houses. I saw one small one surrounded by a walled garden that might suit. Distinct pleasure in examining these houses. I fell immediately in love with the one I liked, and at once, in my mind, arranged it as it ought to be. Perhaps a little arrogant to make a bald statement like that but it is how I feel. I have a very strong belief in myself and always tend to think that my way of doing things is the best. It causes problems sometimes between Marguerite and myself as she also is quite strong willed, but not as strong as me!I lunched at the Cygne, had coffee at a cafe, and walked all the way home - and it never stopped raining! Then after tea I wrote 1,300 words of the "The Old Wives' Tale". This morning while the whole place was being upset with preparations for our departure, I wrote 2 to 300 words more of the novel, and this afternoon I packed my trunk and arranged my papers. That I should have worked so easily at my novel in all this mess shows how it has got hold of me, or I of it.
Sunday, 25 November 2018
White hunting
Friday, November 25th., Cadogan Square, London.
I went to the Reform Club to dine. I there met Raymond Mortimer and Francis Birrell. They had with them a chap by the name of Wilson, a retired 'white hunter'; injured in an accident involving a gun, right arm more or less useless. Interesting chap. Very obviously missing his trade and keen to talk about it. Will probably become a bore in time.
Told me that the first 'kill' is the hardest because the hunter doesn't know his own capacity. It is all about controlling fear. Said that some of his clients just couldn't cope with it, for example if they had to come to close quarters with a wounded animal, which often happens. Said he has seen men just turn and run away with fear, which is hard for them to cope with afterwards. On the other hand he has seen others who overcome their fear and gain tremendous confidence as a result. For some it completely changes their lives. Quite fascinating. As for himself he says that he came to the realisation that to fear death is illogical; if he were killed whilst hunting, well so be it; "Today is as good a day to die as any other." A model stoic attitude.
Also told us that most of his clients were Americans, usually a husband and wife. Apparently the women usually find the business of hunting and killing very exciting (sexually) though they may say they are 'horrified', and there is almost an expectation that they will sleep with the white hunter. Said he always took a double 'cot' with him on safari for that reason. Didn't say what the husband thought about it! Probably hadn't had opportunity to find out!
Then Mortimer, Birrell and I went to the second night of Coward's "Sirocco". Goodish first act. Putrid second. And trying and hysterical third. On the whole a trying evening. I sometimes wonder why I bother to go out so often. I drove home with Birrell, and waited in bed for Dorothy to return. Pity she hadn't been out hunting.
I went to the Reform Club to dine. I there met Raymond Mortimer and Francis Birrell. They had with them a chap by the name of Wilson, a retired 'white hunter'; injured in an accident involving a gun, right arm more or less useless. Interesting chap. Very obviously missing his trade and keen to talk about it. Will probably become a bore in time.
Told me that the first 'kill' is the hardest because the hunter doesn't know his own capacity. It is all about controlling fear. Said that some of his clients just couldn't cope with it, for example if they had to come to close quarters with a wounded animal, which often happens. Said he has seen men just turn and run away with fear, which is hard for them to cope with afterwards. On the other hand he has seen others who overcome their fear and gain tremendous confidence as a result. For some it completely changes their lives. Quite fascinating. As for himself he says that he came to the realisation that to fear death is illogical; if he were killed whilst hunting, well so be it; "Today is as good a day to die as any other." A model stoic attitude.
Also told us that most of his clients were Americans, usually a husband and wife. Apparently the women usually find the business of hunting and killing very exciting (sexually) though they may say they are 'horrified', and there is almost an expectation that they will sleep with the white hunter. Said he always took a double 'cot' with him on safari for that reason. Didn't say what the husband thought about it! Probably hadn't had opportunity to find out!
Then Mortimer, Birrell and I went to the second night of Coward's "Sirocco". Goodish first act. Putrid second. And trying and hysterical third. On the whole a trying evening. I sometimes wonder why I bother to go out so often. I drove home with Birrell, and waited in bed for Dorothy to return. Pity she hadn't been out hunting.
Saturday, 24 November 2018
A dinner party
Wedesday, November 24th., 12b George Street, London.
At work on film all morning. Lunched with Pinker and Swinnerton at Reform, and then I got information from Shufflebotham about nursing home for my film.
Barrie, Elgar, Massingham, Hy. Head and Sassoon to dinner, and Rivers came afterwards. Massingham had forgotten the date, had to be rung up and arrived forty five minutes late. Effects of the drinking of course. I don't think I have ever seen such a rapid decline in a man. He held up well enough but was by no means the witty dinner guest of old.
Large quantities of interesting things were said at this dinner. None of them by me. Some of the fellows stopped until 12.25. I smoked too much. But I have survived it all right. Barrie said he never went out at all except to dine with me once a year. Elgar is fine, though in fact they all were.
At work on film all morning. Lunched with Pinker and Swinnerton at Reform, and then I got information from Shufflebotham about nursing home for my film.
Barrie, Elgar, Massingham, Hy. Head and Sassoon to dinner, and Rivers came afterwards. Massingham had forgotten the date, had to be rung up and arrived forty five minutes late. Effects of the drinking of course. I don't think I have ever seen such a rapid decline in a man. He held up well enough but was by no means the witty dinner guest of old.
Large quantities of interesting things were said at this dinner. None of them by me. Some of the fellows stopped until 12.25. I smoked too much. But I have survived it all right. Barrie said he never went out at all except to dine with me once a year. Elgar is fine, though in fact they all were.
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