From Ancient Greece to the man on the Clapham omnibus

For over two years I used Arnold Bennett’s self-help book Literary Taste to find out if, a century after the book’s publication, it was possible to create my own literary taste. To carry on the experiment, I will now read the books reviewed by Arnold Bennett in the Evening Standard from 1926 to 1931 in his weekly column, Books and Persons. To bring a little personal perspective I will, where possible, draw on entries from his personal journals. This week, Gilbert Murray’s The Classical Tradition in Poetry. 

Can you imagine a contemporary newspaper, whose daily readership is measured in millions, publishing as its weekly book review a piece on the importance of classical traditions in the writing of poetry? Neither can I. That is what The Evening Standard did on the 19th of January 1928 when it published Arnold Bennett’s review of Gilbert Murray’s The Classical Tradition in Poetry. In the review, Bennett bemoans his own lack of Greek and his tendency to doze off while watching stage productions of Greek plays. However, this does not stop him declaring emphatically:

Here is a book I can recommend.

Frontispiece

What book was it that he was recommending? Gilbert Murray, Professor of Greek at Oxford University, had given the first lectures on poetry as the incumbent of the newly established Charles Eliot Norton Chair of Poetry at Harvard University in the autumn of 1926. These were then republished by the Oxford University Press. Murray’s thesis was that all poetry could be firmly put into the Greek tradition of mimesis, a combination of mimicry and immersion that, like the Greek dancers of the molpe, allowed the poem to become that which it is describing. “The world is born. Homer sings” as Victor Hugo wrote and Murray quotes more than once, each time pointing out Hugo’s error: Homer too had models that he drew from, and these models too had their own models.

What did the  readers (as much as 2 million daily) of The Evening Standard make of it all? Any answer to that question will, I suppose, depend on your opinion of Arnold Bennett, literary taste in 1920s Britain and who could afford a book costing five shillings (as much as £40 if you link it to relative wages in 1928)? My own feeling is that readers of The Evening Standard did not simply turn the page or skim through the review. Gilbert Murray is not well known today, as this Google Book Ngram make only too clear:

The numbers don't lie.

It was a different story back in the 1920s and 30s. Gilbert Murray was not simply a Greek scholar he was also a bit of personality. His work on behalf of the League of Nations, his speeches in favour of disarmament and free trade were reported at length in the Burnley News, the Hull Daily Mail and the Yorkshire Post and Leeds Intelligencer. He was not solely of interest to the metropolitan press. Bennett wrote:

…the Professor has been and is a great civilising influence on the present age. I immensely admire his taste, his moral bases and his achievement. And he emphatically is not narrow-minded. His sympathetic vision can and does embrace many varied manifestations of life, including the modern; he constantly shows this by his allusions and his comparisons.

It is this emphasis on the personal qualities of Gilbert Murray that would, I think, catch the eye of the reader on the London omnibus or underground.

Gilbert Murray National Library of Australia

What did I make of it? I found the chapters on Milton and Shakespeare a challenge; almost overwhelmed by the talk of dochmiacs and dactyl-spondees in the chapter on Metre and sceptical of his links between Hamlet and Orestes. All, I should point out, based on the same knowledge of Greek as had Bennett. Am I glad I read it? Yes I am. His style is clear and limpid. His passion for his subject shines through. He is academic without being exclusive.

On the 24th of January, Bennett saw Noel Coward in comedy The Second Man and declared him “admirable.”

 

Ward is not the opposite of Wayward.

For over two years I used Arnold Bennett’s self-help book Literary Taste to find out if, a century after the book’s publication, it was possible to create my own literary taste. To carry on the experiment, I will now read the books reviewed by Arnold Bennett in the Evening Standard from 1926 to 1931 in his weekly column, Books and Persons. To bring a little personal perspective I will, where possible, draw on entries from his personal journals. This week, St. John Ervine’s novel The Wayward Man. 

The Wayward Man

In the Evening Standard of the 22nd of December 1927, Bennett wrote of St. John Ervine’s novel The Wayward Man

I have heard that The Wayward Man is having a good sale. It ought to have a very good sale for a very long time. This book is a book….His spell is deliberate but powerful and sure.

Halfway through my Penguin edition of 1936, I found myself thinking “Bennett has sold me a dud.” Even Bennett, like honest Homer, nods. I thought of leaving it unread but I am glad I did not. True, there are moments in the life of its central character, the Ulster-born and prodigal son Robert Dunwoody, when trenchant social comment from the 1920s, a visit to a San Francisco brothel and a stint in a Mid-Western jail, seem either mawkish or racially insensitive. Ervine’s attempts to capture the intonations of all those from outwith his own Ulster folk (he was born in Belfast in 1883) grated. But I am glad I did not. I would have missed moments of lyricism and pointed but poignant judgements on life and its viscitudes. For example, Robert, having run off to sea instead of becoming the Presbyterian minister his mother wanted, looks up at the stars from the forecastle-head of his ship:

The whole constellation of heaven seemed to be laid bare before him…and Robert, for the first time in his life, felt that earth and sea and sky and stars and men were bound together. The Great Bear and the Little Bear and the Pleiades and the Heavenly Twins, the Hyades with Aldebarran, the Bull’s Eye, fiercely shining in the middle of them, and Orion and Mars and Sirius, the Dog Star, the brightest in heaven, and the Great Nebula, star dust carelessly spilt, as if God the sower had suddenly emptied his sackful of stars and emptied them across the sky.

Or, as in this simple exchange between Robert and his mother at the end of the novel:

He pressed her hand in his. “I wish I could be the son you want me to be, but I can’t!”

“I know,” she said, “so I’ll content myself with the son you are…”

NPG x94121; St John Greer Ervine by Walter Benington, for  Elliott & Fry

Saint John Ervine (Belfast Telegraph)

However, it was not for Robert’s sake that I finished the novel. As a character he does not change from childhood: wayward as a boy, he is equally wayward as a man. No, it is Brenda, who loved Robert as a wee girl and marries him as a woman, who captured my attention.  She is obsessed with success and determined to live, as she puts it, as “nice people” do. She takes on Mrs. Dunwoody’s hardware stores and turns them into a successful chain throughout Ulster. She fights her corner like a demon and, scared of no one, destroys more than one male competitor. Robert shares in her success and shares her bed. But sex disgusts her and a child is out of the question. It is this, more than the dull bourgeois existence Robert struggles to embrace after his seafaring years, that leads to his betrayal of Brenda. Ervine was, and is, remembered as a successful playwright, and these scenes crackle with the charged emotions that can only come from the naked immediacy of theatre.

On the 4th of December, Bennett dined well at the Savoy with, among others, Noel Coward, Humbert Wolf, Ethel Mannin, Osbert Sitwell and Rebecca West. To have listened in to that lot…

Frank Swinnerton: Gentleman

For over two years I used Arnold Bennett’s self-help book Literary Taste to find out if, a century after the book’s publication, it was possible to create my own literary taste. To carry on the experiment, I will now read the books reviewed by Arnold Bennett in the Evening Standard from 1926 to 1931 in his weekly column, Books and Persons. To bring a little personal perspective I will, where possible, draw on entries from his personal journals. This week, the writer Frank Swinnerton’s book of essays The Tokefield Papers

NPG x137246; Frank Arthur Swinnerton; Mary Dorothy Swinnerton (nÈe Bennett); Olivia Mary Swinnerton by Bassano

Frank Swinnerton, his wife Mary and their daughter Olivia. 1937. © National Portrait Gallery.

Is anything more pleasurable than reading a book of essays by a writer long dead, on topics that have little bearing on contemporary life and which you cannot discuss because no one you know has read them? Of course there is. Pleasures abound in every corner of our lives. Like heretics, infidels and schismatics, the world is full of them. And yet, for that very reason a book such as Frank Swinnerton’s Tokefield Papers delights and charms me even more. It makes no demands, speaks in a quiet and cultured voice and expects nothing from us. Arnold Bennett, in his book column of December the 8th 1927, wrote of the book of collected essays:

Swinnerton has an extraordinary natural gift of elegance. None can handle a sentence with more skill. Devilishly adroit, he can get himself out of any compositional scrape without re-casting his phrase. Sometimes I wish he were less dextrous. But his attitude is maintained throughout. He is a realist concerning human nature, harsh. slightly cruel, yet kindly and always urbane. He amounts to a tonic, and should be taken at least twice a year. His urbanity and his moderation of statement are formidable.

The contents betray Swinnerton’s self-confessed fascination with his fellow humans: Why Gardeners are Gloomy, The Duty of Being Agreeable, On Thinking Well of Oneself, On Feeling Inferior, Respectability. For a man who eschewed all things Freudian, he shows himself to have had a a profound insight into human behaviour and a sense of empathy that does not blind him to the dangers posed by the emotionally-demanding, the rude, the arrogant who seek to dominate instead of sharing time and space in delightful gossip. There is something  of the Roman stoic philosopher in Swinnerton and I would place him unhesitatingly in that line of Republican and Imperial writer-philosophers such as Seneca and Cato. Somewhere in the Shades, I like to think of them sharing a cup of wine.

I wondered about the title of the book, The Tokefield Papers. A little internet research led me to the Surrey village of Cranleigh. It was there that Swinnerton bought a sixteenth-century cottage in 1924 and continued to write and entertain visitors with a cup of tea and a blether until his death at 92 in 1982.

mhimages5thsep_page_024_image_0001-300x191

Old Tokefield, 1955 -1966. © The Estate of Marguerite Howarth.

On December 4th, Bennett visited the Garrick Club, listened to Bach’s B minor Mass at St. Margaret’s and ate oysters at the Reform Club. He felt uplifted by the music but criticised the women’s dress for its dowdiness.

 

Jew Süss by Lion Feuchtwanger

For over two years I used Arnold Bennett’s self-help book Literary Taste to find out if, a century after the book’s publication, it was possible to create my own literary taste. The answer was a resounding yes. However, I became tired of reading old books and felt the need to bring myself up-to-date. I will now read the books reviewed by Arnold Bennett in the Evening Standard from 1926 to 1931 in his weekly column, Books and Persons. To bring a little personal perspective I will, where possible, draw on entries from his personal journals. This week, Jew Süss by Lion Feuchtwanger. 

On the 13th of January 1927, under the heading A Fine Historical Novel by a German Author, Bennett concluded that week’s review with:

Jew Suss is a splendid story, but it is also a complete picture of a complex social organism from top to bottom. It entertains, it enthrals, and simultaneously it teaches, it enlarges the field of knowledge.

To which I can only add. “Aye, that.”

Feuchtwanger, Lion

Lion Feuchtwanger britannica.com

The novel, written by Lion Feuchtwanger, was based on the events that took place in the German state of Württemberg in the first decades of the eighteenth century. Joseph Süß Oppenheimer was a Jewish banker who bankrolled Duke Karl Alexander, the state’s ruler; rose to dizzying heights of power and, as befits a morality tale, crashed to earth when his luck ran out.

The cover of the German edition wikipedia.org

 

It’s not always an easy read. The word “Jew” is used, in the mouths of the majority of the people in the novel, as a term of abuse. The range of characters is wide; to recognise them as they appear at different points in the novel is not easy. Feuchtwanger pulls no punches when discussing Imperial politics of the period or bringing into the weft of the novel some of the principal tenets of the Kabbalah.  But it is worth it, for it is a roller coaster of a read. Rarely have I read a book that has gripped me so strongly. I am deeply sentimental but this is one of the few books that has made me cry.

The Nazis, of course, burnt his books.

On the 11th of January, Bennet walked to the Carlton Hotel  to meet Colonel Fitzhugh Minnegerode, representative of New York Times, who told him an amusing anecdote about Gabrielle D’Annunzio. Earlier that week  he signed over the rights to all his performed plays to his partner Dorothy Cheston. The weather, I’m sure to the surprise of no one , was unsettled.

My apologies to the gap in entries. It resulted as a combination of the poor use of postcodes and worry over shelf space.

My American tragedy

For over two years I used Arnold Bennett’s self-help book Literary Taste to find out if, a century after the book’s publication, it was possible to create my own literary taste. The answer was a resounding yes. However, I became tired of reading old books and felt the need to bring myself up-to-date. I will now read the books reviewed by Arnold Bennett in the Evening Standard from 1926 to 1931 in his weekly column, Books and Persons. To bring a little personal perspective I will, where possible, draw on entries from his personal journals. This week, An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreisler. 

The temperatures have finally dropped below 40ºC, and I can now sit down and write a new post without dripping sweat on the keyboard. Not that I have a great deal to write. It’s not often that I give up on a book but that’s what I did with Theodore Dreisler An American Tragedy. The warning signs were all there, if I had just bothered to read them in Bennett’s review:

I am not going to recommend An American Tragedy to all and sundry dilettante and plain people. It is of tremendous length. It is written abominably, by a man who evidently despises style, elegance, clarity, even grammar. Dreiser simply does not know how to write, never did know, never wanted to know. Dreiser would sneer at Nathaniel Hawthorne, a writer of some of the loveliest English ever printed.

For this and other reasons he is difficult to read. He makes no compromise with the reader. Indeed, to read Dreisler with profit you must take your coat off to it, you must go down on your knees to it, you must up hands and say “I surrender.” And Dreiser will spit on you for a start.

As an indication of just how reluctant I was to be spat on, I should point out that I read instead Elizabeth Taylor’s A View of the Harbour.

Taylor wins on judges' ruling. Dreisler disqualified for spitting.

Taylor wins on judges’ ruling. Dreisler disqualified for spitting.

The review appeared in the Evening Standard of the 30th of December, 1926. It was the end of a year in which Bennett had set himself the target of 365,000 words and which, as he pointed out in a journal entry on the 20th of December, it was a target he had reached and would surpass. It was also the first Christmas organised by his partner Dorothy Cheston. Bennett had separated from his wife in 1921. Although separated his wife never agreed to a divorce but Dorothy changed her surname by deed-poll to Bennett. Their time together was relatively short  (he died in 1931) but happy. They had one daughter, Virginia.

 

 

 

A Republic of Wolves. A City of Ghosts.

Image

My novel has a brand new cover and also some very nice reviews: five and four stars on Amazon and five 5 stars on Goodreads. I’d be delighted to send a copy to anyone who’d like to review it for their blog. Please drop me an email at acityofghostsATgmailDOTcom. You can find the Amazon reviews here.

“A Republic of Wolves. A City of Ghosts” reviewed

A Republic of Wolves. A City of Ghosts.
Hilary at the Vulpes Libris literary website wrote a review of my novel A Republic of Wolves. A City of Ghosts – “… a novel containing some brilliant writing and a masterly control of the material.”

If you would like to read the review, you can find it here.

If you would like to buy the novel in ebook format you can find it at Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.com, iBookstore or Lulu.

Spain, 1940. The Alhambra Palace in Granada, the jewel of Muslim architecture, lies in ruins. But the capture of the city could save the Republic. What price victory?

There is no ism in review

I am reading the books recommended by Arnold Bennett in his self-help guide Literary Taste: How To Form It, first published in 1909 and reissued in 1938. Can following a prescribed reading list from over a hundred years ago lead to forming a literary taste? A graph is normally included. This week, a review by Arnold Bennett of Laura Riding’s book:

Spanish literary reviews, like the landscape, tend to be somewhat flat. Worthy, serious, detailed they may be, they are also a bit dull. In this week’s literary supplement in El Pais, Babelia, there are five pages on the Spanish literary exiles of the Civil War, a dissection of Picasso’s genius, an Italian writer called Luigi Pintor, an interview with Yasmin Reza, two pages on Edward Hopper, reviews of books about the vanguardista Maruja Mallo, translations of Danish poetry, Spinoza and his century, an anthology of ultraist poetry and two books on slavery; there’s also an article on the novel and masturbation. Take a look at the Saturday Review of The Guardian and there’s an article entitled Amis – national treasure or national embarrassment. The Spanish equivalent would be an article entitled Antonio Muñoz Molina – he’s a bit mental isn’t he?

It’s not going to happen and I think it’s not going to happen because the Spanish literary world, apart from being from being small, is a comfortable one with frequent conferences for the successful writers and respectful reviews for the newcomers. Nobody wants to rock the boat. British literary culture, on the other hand, sometimes appears to be built on the premise of not just rocking the boat but sinking it with heavy naval gunfire. From Wordsworth’s dismissal of Coleridge as a drunkard, Thackeray’s accusations of Dicken’s infidelity to Zadie Smith’s spat with the critic James Wood about contemporary literary theory, the British literary world has been characterised by snide, bitchy, funny and untrue comments. But as Orson Welles pointed out in The Third Man, centuries of peace in Switzerland had led to the invention of the cuckoo clock, whereas thirty years of the Borgias had led to murder, warfare, terror and, of course, Michaelangelo. You can see where that metaphor is leading to, can’t you?

Our man Bennett had his fair share of literary feuds, the one with Virginia Woolf being possibly the most famous and the one with his neighbour’s cat that shat in his beetroot being less well-known (the beetroot was in the jar, not in the garden). Considering that he had a regular review column in the The Evening Standard from 1926 to 1931 and was one of Britain’s most influential book critics (if not the most influential critic) it is surprising that he did not have more. I think he largely escaped the backbiting gossip because his reviews drew on his love of reading and he wrote without rancor. They are in a word disarming, Consider this from the first of March, 1928. Reviewing Laura Riding’s Contemporaries and Snobs (Cape, 7s 6d), he wrote:

…Miss Riding possesses intellectual power; also some intelligence. Also various defects. I shall not attempt to state her theory of modernist poetry. In order to do so, I should have to read the book again, and I would not read it again for £100. The book is metaphysics. I think it would interest Mr. Bertrand Russell, who probably alone in England is capable of grappling with it effectively.

I am sure Miss Riding gained extra readers from this review, probably declaring “What is good for Mr. Russell is good enough for me.”

I could read a book of these reviews, which is what I am doing. Arnold Bennett: The Evening Standard Years, edited by Andrew Mylett (Chatto and Windus, ). Long out of print, it is well worth tracking down on Alibris or Abebooks. The voice of the intelligent middlebrow, Bennett is never less than chatty in tone and engaging in content. He is a raconteur of literary anecdotes which are at odd with the stammer he suffered from. The gods, being Greek, have, if nothing else, a keen sense of irony.

The cat, I’m afraid, is an invention. But in the alternative universe which skips behind our own, that cat marvels at his ability to open a jar of beetroot and shit in it.

Laura Riding was, on the other hand, very real. Poet (although she later renounced her poetry), critic, partner of Robert Graves, she lived until the ripe old age of 90, dying in Florida in 1991.

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