All

I’ll finish off my reviews for the week with a couple of 1976 books that I didn’t really like or dislike. Both had pluses and minuses, but were really just mediocre [in my opinion] and so I shan’t say too much about them. I’ll do another post before the end of the week, rounding up all the many wonderful club reviews I’ve seen.

In the Purely Pagan Sense by John Lehmann

I bought this a few years ago because of Lehmann’s connections with Leonard and Virginia Woolf – I’d already read his very bitter memoir of working with them, Thrown To The Woolfs. He spent eight years as managing director of the Woolfs’ Hogarth Press, but his career covered many other literary avenues – running his own publishing house, founding periodicals, writing poetry and biography, and championing many poets. His sister was the novelist Rosamond – and In the Purely Pagan Sense was, I think, his only novel. And it is only scarcely a novel – because the first-person narrator, Jack Marlowe, is clearly more or less Lehmann himself.

As I’ve been writing afterwords for the British Library Women Writers series, about societal changes for women through the early twentieth century, it’s amazing how often I have to resist writing about sex again. It is one of the biggest shifts of the period – not so much what was happening, but what was permissible to write about. And gay sexual relationships seem to have followed a similar trajectory, though not at exactly the same time. When In the Purely Pagan Sense was published, gay sex had been officially legalised in the UK for a handful of years – but clearly Lehmann didn’t yet want to put his own name to the descriptions in this novel.

And, good lord, there is precious little else in In the Purely Pagan Sense. Essentially it is a litany, from adolescence through to his fifties, of Marlowe’s sexual conquests. He doesn’t seem ever to have encountered a man who wasn’t sexually attracted to men – and, specifically, to Marlowe himself. We don’t learn an awful lot about the many men he engages with – usually a brief physical description, particularly the size of their thighs, and whatever happened in the bed, and onto the next. There are two or three who linger for longer periods, and they were quite interesting. But otherwise it’s mostly soft porn, and it all gets a bit tedious.

This is against the backdrop of enormous events of the mid-20th century, and the blurb optimistically says ‘his pursuit of pleasure also provides an accurate and revealing picture of Europe between the wars’, but he is too preoccupied with one sort of ‘revealing’ to bother too much about any other.

Lehmann writes well, and I’m sure he could have written a psychologically much more interesting novel. This one was entertaining to turn pages, but it’s going to a charity shop.

Julian Grenfell by Nicholas Mosley

This biography was the eleventh book published by Persephone Books – and it’s curious that, so early in their publishing history, they issued a book that is such an outlier to their usual output. Being by a man, about a man, quite late in the century, and a biography, it is a Persephone minority in many ways. So surely it must be brilliant? Erm…

I don’t know how well know Grenfell is as a war poet. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him mentioned out of the context of this biography – and I didn’t see much of him as a poet within it. As the Persephone site says, ‘so much of it is about his mother’, Ettie. There is far, far more about her – her passions and assignations – than it is about Julian, who only really comes into his own in the final hundred pages of this 400-page book. And when he does, he seems truly awful – relishing war, and seeming to think it universal that people would quite enjoy killing.

Of course, there’s no problem with writing a biography of an unpleasant person, or even several unpleasant people. But I found the whole book a curious mix of good writing and total clumsiness. Mosely relies heavily on quoting letters and the like in full, often one after another. He doesn’t seem to have any sense of pacing or perspective, and rambles in whichever direction catches his attention. We learn almost nothing about Grenfell’s development as a writer or, truly, about him as a writer at all. It seems bizarre to call the book Julian Grenfell and have him such a cipher in the background for most of the book.

And yet, the writing is often really impressive, and I did find myself whirled along by it a lot of the time. Particularly towards the end. Here’s a section (though one where his summary of Julian’s views on war is not reflected in anything else he says):

To feel oneself within the processes of destruction and yet to love life because these are the processes out of which life continually comes – this is dangerous, because destruction can thus be encouraged. This was Ettie’s predicament: she wanted to make war holy. But then Ettie, ashamed of childish feelings, had toc all war by grandiose names; her dangerousness was in the delusion. Julian saw war for what it was – its childishness and terror – and he did not want to describe it otherwise. And so, in spite of his pleasure, he does not seem an encourager of war; pleasure did not involve approbation. That he did not seem to want to go on living was perhaps the sign of Ettie’s victory over him: the growing-up part of him had been too much alone. As a dying hero he could be a child in his mother’s arms again. But part of him would still be amused by this. He could see both the scene and himself in relation to it: this ‘he’ that saw being neither victim nor killer; but codifier; artist.

Julian Grenfell is certainly a very unusual biography, and perhaps that means it will be loved and admired by some – it’s a risky approach, because it can equally leave someone like me nonplussed. If you want something beautifully written, bewilderingly structured, and very coy on the topic of its central subject, then you might well prize Mosley’s book.

Since both books covered here are concerned with the past, neither are very reflective of what was going on in 1976. But I always think, each club year, to see how the previous years of the 20th century were considered from that vantage.

From my week’s books, I had three successes and two not-quites – I think The Doctor’s Wife by Brian Moore ended up being my favourite of the five.