Commonplace Book

'...The world seldom takes account of the unhappy sensitiveness in devout souls; it thinks them insensible not only because they know how to keep silent, but how to sacrifice their secret woes...'

from Robert Orange by John Oliver Hobbes (Chapter XI)

Commonplace Book

'...Men's designs are never so indefinite and confused as when they meet with no outward resistance. A close attack has proved the salvation of most human wills and roused the energy of many drooping convictions. It is seldom good that one should enter in any vocation very easily, sweetly, and without strife. The best apprenticeships, whether ecclesiastical or religious, or civil or military, or political or artistic, are never the most calm. Whether we study the lives of saints or the lives of those distinguished in any walk of human endeavour where perfection, in some degree or other, has been at least the goal, we always find that the first years of the pursuit have been one bitter history of temptations, doubts, despondencies, struggles, and agonising inconsistencies of volition...'

from Robert Orange by John Oliver Hobbes (Chapter XI)

Caesar is Dead by Jack Lindsay (1934)

This is the second of the trilogy, and a much spicier read than the first. Where that one had long periods of grim sticking-with-it, this one travels at a fair tick. There were a couple of moments where I thought it had run a little thin on steam, but on the whole it was strongly involving. This section is the story of Caesar's murder and the reactions of the main senators, power-players and the populace to it; the striving to replace him, the adoration of him, the gladness among some that his influence was over, and the regret of his passing among others, exemplified in renewed economic chances, closed off possibilities, the political-hope-and-dream-machine having its character irremediably changed. There are a whole series of relationships at the core of the book, men and women of many castes and affiliations: Antonius and his searing wife Fulvia, Amos the young Jew and his love for an Egyptian maid Karni, Gallus the poet and his drunken fascination for the reciter Cytheris. Their matchings are trouble-laden, foolish, animalistic, often fated, but always rich. Lindsay's attitude to the depiction of these presumably reveals those he had toward men and women and their partnering across the board and all through time. This book has one notable failing: the author's attempt to match the facts with invented psychology. In trying to imagine why the main players did what they did when they did Lindsay struggles to find believable meaning. A good example is the initial rise of Octavianus, who seems suddenly to come to the fore when other players' efforts are unsuccessful. Even though all around are very well versed in who could possibly have a claim to the leadership and to Caesar's name and position, Lindsay avers that Octavianus had simply been forgotten about. That being the case doesn't really bear scrutiny psychologically. But this middle novel is lively, sensual, intensely coloured and deeply enjoyable.

Commonplace Book

'...Asceticism is a faithful quality. It is won by slow and painful stages, with bitter distress and mortifying tears, but once really gained, the losing is even harder than the struggle for its acquisition.'

from Robert Orange by John Oliver Hobbes (Chapter IV)

More Women Than Men by I. Compton-Burnett (1933)

This is the first Compton-Burnett that I have enjoyed with out-and-out relish. There is the sense in this one that she's attacked the jugular just that little bit more firmly and assuredly. I think I also like the fact that it isn't set strictly in a family environment, rather in that of a girls' school. Josephine Napier is the headmistress. She has very strong and complicated relationships with her team of mistresses and the occasional master. She also has her gay brother's son living with her as an adoptee, and receives regular visits from that brother and his younger waspish partner. Erupting into the scene are an old friend who has also been a rival in love and her young daughter. The author's torturous attitude to conversation and interrelation and what they bring out in people, as well as what they don't, or what they just hint at, takes all this up in a whirlwind of words, depositing some things along the way, keeping others stirred thoroughly, and consistently re-arranging both the overt and the covert angles of each character toward the others. Fascinatingly, there is a point reached in all these jealousies, seeming altruisms, polite allowings, barbed vicious comments and tangled grips of power-play where a simple, physical, frightening fact is shown up, causing a death, witnessed by only two of them, which ripples a tiny bit in the ensuing couple of pages, and then is never mentioned again. Such is the Compton-Burnett insistence on the implied that one is consistently wondering whether one or other of them will bring it up veiledly, or be called to account by the other by implication, or will refer obliquely to it whilst discussing another matter. But they never do. Which is like life, I guess. These people are generally not like life, they are much too accentuated, which has been a sticking point for me in the past, but I have to admit that this time I cared a lot less, because there was something viscerally entertaining in all this lather of contest.

Ninety-Six Hours' Leave by Stephen McKenna (1917)

This fourth novel is a return to the author's brightest mode. His first novel was close to the mood of this; the second and third deepened considerably. I don't know what prompted the return, but either of these modes is a welcome one for this reader - McKenna has a lovely rich aplomb whether he directs it toward the lighter or the darker. It's the story of four upper class young officers with a few days' leave in 1916. They return to London and re-emerge into their prior world - that of the top hotels, their restuarants and cafes, and the denizens who frequent them. One of them spies a gorgeous young woman as they alight at the station on first arriving, and makes it his mission to get to know her. Little does he know that the urge will lead him and his three fellows into a world of spying, political intrigue, royal impersonation and murder! The strangest thing about reading McKenna is the inexplicability of his reputation's demise. Perhaps I have to read further to find out why - he survived until 1967, publishing almost yearly, with his final novel in 1962. But he's never been 'rediscovered', never republished by lovers of the neglected author, is almost completely forgotten. From being hailed on his debut in 1912 as Oscar Wilde's truest inheritor, it seems that, after his huge success in 1918 with the novel after this one, it was all downhill, and a long way down. This lively stylish jeu d'esprit captures the spirit of elegance which is now more associated with Michael Arlen and the authors of the twenties. A kind of knowing cynicism pervades it, but not in a detrimental way. I'm guessing that the success of The Thirty-Nine Steps for John Buchan a few years previously provided an inspiration for this one's tangling with espionage, but the author was the nephew of a cabinet minister and close to that world of diplomacy and no doubt skulduggery, so his influences could have been multifarious. His style is assured and great fun.