1940club

Eggs, Beans and Crumpets by P.G. Wodehouse – #1940Club

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There are so many P.G. Wodehouse books in the world, and so many of them are sitting unread on my bookshelves, that I try not to buy more. But I think I must have been tempted by the intriguing title of Wodehouse’s Eggs, Beans and Crumpets, and I’m glad I did because it meant I could add it to the 1940 Club. It’s also one of his books that I’ve never seen anyone else mention, and that’s enough to make me wonder if I’ve stumbled across an overlooked gem among his vast canon.

Well, the title is fun, but completely irrelevant – it’s a collection of stories from a few different gentleman’s clubs, and Wodehouse has decided to delineate different anonymous members of the clubs by types of breakfast food. Is this a joke he did elsewhere? It’s never explained, and the different foods don’t seem to have any associated traits. Here, for instance, is the opening paragraph of the first story:

A Bean and a Crumpet were in the smoking-room of the Drones Club having a quick one before lunch, when an Egg who had been seated at the writing-table in the corner rose and approached them.

Perhaps he thought of the title first? Anyway, while these various figures are unnamed, most of the stories feature names that P.G. Wodehouse fans will recognise. The Drones Club, of course, appears in many collections of Wodehouse stories – and the first few stories in Eggs, Beans and Crumpets star one of their most prominent members, Bingo Little.

Bingo Little will also be familiar to readers of the Jeeves books. In those, he is perpetually falling in love with different women. By the time of Eggs, Beans and Crumpets he is happily married to a rich novelist. There is something sweet and unusual in Wodehouse about their genuinely affectionate love for one another – but the difficulty that inspires each of his stories is Rosie M. Banks’ (his wife) reluctance to give him any money. Bingo Little also needs money to pay debts, and his sure-fire way to earn it is to gamble on a horse so certain to win that it’s basically just collecting money. Except, of course, the horse always loses and Bingo Little gets himself into increasing difficulties – without, in these stories, Jeeves to save him.

Apparently other stories in Eggs, Beans and Crumpets will differ depending on whether you have the US or UK editions. In my UK edition, other familiar characters who appear in later stories are Ukridge and Mr Mulliner, and quite a few minor characters who recur in Ukridge stories. In some ways it doesn’t particularly matter who the story is about. These gentlemen do have different personalities, but the structure of each story is the same: they get themselves into some sort of fix, and then surprising coincidences help extricate them from it.

While I really enjoyed reading this for the 1940 Club, I think that is the reason I prefer Wodehouse at novel-length. Because there will only be one big denouement where all the pieces brilliantly fit into place, and the hero gets away with whatever risks and blunders they have found themselves in. In Eggs, Beans and Crumpets it was all very fun, but rather repetitive. The same patterns took place in every chapter, without long enough space for the plot to have got as brilliantly convoluted as Wodehouse does at his best.

But, while the plots felt hurried, the writing was as deliciously Wodehousian as ever. There is no equal for his mix of understatement, overstatement, and comic twists and turns of sentences. Even something like this is deliciously funny to me:

The Bean asked what the Bella Mae Jobson affair was, and the Crumpet, expressing surprise that he had not heard of it, said that it was the affair of Bella Mae Jobson.

I could type out the whole book, but here is just one more example – on the snobbery of ailments at a health spa:

The ancient Spartans, one gathers, were far from cordial towards their Helots, and the French aristocrat of pre-Revolution days tended to be a little stand-offish with his tenantry, but their attitude was almost back-slapping compared with that of – let us say – the man who has been out in Switzerland taking insulin for his diabetes towards one who is simply undergoing treatment from the village doc負or for an ingrowing toe-nail. And this was particularly so, of course, in those places where invalids collect in gangs – Baden-Baden, for example, or Hot Springs, Virginia, or, as in Sir Aylmer’s case, Droitgate Spa.

Wodehouse has never been equalled – he hasn’t even been imitated as much as you’d expect – and any time spent with him is reliably delightful. I doubt I’ll remember the details of Eggs, Beans and Crumpets and it isn’t a standout from his library of work – it certainly wouldn’t be one of the ones I’d recommend to a newcomer. But a mid-ranking Wodehouse is still a more entertaining experience than almost any other writer, and I enjoyed every moment.

A London Family Between the Wars by M.V. Hughes – #1940Club

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The title to M.V. Hughes’s A London Family Between the Wars is only half accurate, and belies the fact that it is part of a series. You might be familiar with A London Child of the 1870s, which was published by Persephone and is the only other one I’ve read. Along the way she also covers the 1880s and 1890s – before jumping through to the interwar years. In 1940 this was, of course, very recent history.

So, yes, it is about a family between the wars – but by no stretch of the imagination are they in London. The village they live in, Cuffley, is probably firmly within the London commuter belt now – but it is a village, and when the Hughes family lived there it clearly feels very much like a village isolated from the world around it.

Perhaps one of the reasons that M.V. Hughes skipped from the 1890s to the interwar years is because her husband has died. Her only allusion to this is on the first page, ‘I was suddenly left a widow’ – I’m not sure what he died of, though Wikipedia says it was in 1918 so may well have been at war. She doesn’t dwell on the sadness, but she does talk about her sons – with the extraordinary names Vivian and Barnholt, and the rather more common-or-garden Arthur. At the start of the memoir they range from new-adult to early-teenager, and she writes with love and respect of them all. In-jokes are hard to convey in a way that means anything to the reader, but she does manage to give the sense of the best sort of family – the security and affection, and the safety they feel in teasing each other without endangering the relationships between them.

The anecdotes she tells them, and the lives they lead that gradually grow into greater maturity away from the family home, were all very pleasing. But somehow I now don’t remember any of them – Hughes successfully portrays an atmosphere rather than uniquely interesting quotes and incidents.

You might know that one of my favourite things – in fiction or non-fiction – is when people go house-hunting or move house. In A London Family Between the Wars they move across the village once they’ve outgrown their little house – to a new build. But for some reason haven’t quite checked that it is finished before they move in…

The best of a big worry is that it drives out all the little ones. My annoyance at being overcharged for the removal soon gave way to my dismay at the state of our new home.  Of course I had reckoned on our removing-workmen to put most of the furniture in position. But the parquet-flooring of the big room had not been begun. The wooden bricks were occupying the floor in piles. Not a single thing could be placed there. So our piano and Chesterfield-couch, our Welsh cupboard and dresser, oak chest and chairs, all had to be dumped in the garden.

The next revelation was that there were no stairs. A nice big ‘well’ was there, but the ghost of a stair. A ladder was propped up for our use in the manner of Jacob’s dream, and the beds were hoisted up the well by means of ropes. So, at all events, thought I, there will be somewhere to sleep.

That certainly puts any of my house anxieties in the shade! The stairs don’t turn up for quite a while, and they manage to make do. ‘Making do’ is quite a theme of her life, indeed, and relatable to people reading the book in 1940.

Hughes wasn’t making most of her money from writing – she also worked in the education profession. Not much as a teacher herself any longer, but in assessing other teachers’ lessons – and the exam papers that they wrote. Much of the book is taken up with tales from these worlds, and (though I have no personal interest in teaching) I found her discussions of how best to teach really interesting. In a suitably anonymised way, she shares fascinating examples of the best and worst teaching she has witnessed – and some sentences could equally well have been written 83 years later: “Our noble Ministers of Education have probably never in their lives entered the portals of an elementary school. I should like to rub their noses in a few of them.”

Overall, it’s an interesting and engaging memoir, and Hughes’ personality is what holds it together. She is charmed by nature and by people’s foibles, but is also quite no-nonsense herself. She has a few nearby friends but otherwise largely wants to be left alone, cherishing connection with her sons above all. Of course, most of the book is about a time before 1940, so it’s not all revealing about life in the period of the 1940 Club – but modernity is looming towards the end, and there is a sense that the countryside is changing. Every generation believes this, of course, and it is instructive to see something like this written so long ago:

For years after our settling here a great feature of our pleasure was the unusual beauty of our walks. There were two specially shown to visitors with pride: our star turn was a long grassy glade through the woods, with its varying colours; especially when the season was right for striking a secret route across a field into a copse thick with wild hyacinth. A walk in another direction was almost as good, for it was across fields and over stiles, up and down hill, past a real farm, and producing in spring at one stage in the walk a generous show of daffodils.

And in the autumn we could roam the fields close at hand for mushrooms – more than we could consume; while for blackberries we hardly needed to do more than push out our hand.

But now we are met with barbed wire, notices to keep to the pathway, to beware of the dogs, ‘You have been warned’, and other such chilling deterrents.

Plus ça change…

Revisiting Miss Hargreaves – #1940Club

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I think it shows extraordinary restraint that we are five or so years into these ‘reading the club’ years before we chose the year that Miss Hargreaves was published. You might think I inaugurated these club years simply as the start of a lengthy campaign to get more people to read Miss H. At the time of writing, nobody has contributed her to the club – but by the time I publish this, that might have changed. And, let’s face it, it’s quite likely that I’ve already strong-armed everybody into reading it.

(If you don’t know anything about it yet, fear not – I’ll explain soon.)

I knew I wanted to re-read Miss Hargreaves for the 1940 Club, because it would seem absurd not to, given how much I talk about it. And I realised it’s actually been quite a long time since I last read. At one point, I was rereading Miss Hargreaves every year or two, ever since it was first recommended to me by my piano teacher in 2003. But it must be about ten years since I last gave myself the pleasure of spending time with Constance Hargreaves.

For newbies, Miss Hargreaves is a novel about a woman who is made up on the spur of the moment. Norman Huntley and his friend Henry are in an ugly church in Lusk, Ireland, being given a tour by an overly attentive verger. Without much thinking about it, Norman claims to have a friend in common with the beloved old minister of the church – that friend being Miss Hargreaves. To entertain themselves, Norman and Henry make up all sorts of silly details about her. She never goes anywhere without her dog, cockatoo, harp and hip bath. She writes poetry and is related to the Duke of Grosvenor. She is nearly 90 years old, but still travelling to enjoy choral music across the country.

As a final joke, they send a letter to a hotel where she is supposedly staying, inviting her to come and visit them in the cathedral town of Cornford. And think no more of it. Until they get a reply…

And then she arrives. Miss Hargreaves is exactly as they have described her – and exactly as lovable and eccentric and slightly intimidating. The novel is a jeu d’esprit about when creative thought gets out of control. And, as time goes on, Miss Hargreaves becomes something of a Frankenstein’s monster – beginning to exert control and challenge her creator. “I hate her and I love her and – I’m half afraid of her,” as Norman says.

When I first read Miss Hargreaves in 2003, it set me off in a direction I’ve never looked back from. I discovered my love of fantastic novels – not set in a fantasy world, but where the fantastic intrudes into the real world. Since then, I’ve read and loved Lady Into Fox by David Garnett, The Love Child by Edith Olivier, Miss Carter and the Ifrit by Susan Alice Kerby, Strange Journey by Maud Cairnes, The Brontes Went To Woolworths by Rachel Ferguson and many others that fit this subgenre. I’ve written a DPhil on the topic. And I always come back to my love for Miss H. So much that I named my (male) cat after her.

This time, for the first time, I decided to listen to the audiobook. Read by Julian Elfer, it was a delightful experience. I’ve listened to a dramatisation of the novel many times, but never the unabridged version – and yet I’ve read Miss Hargreaves so many times that it felt delightfully familiar. I’ve come out the other side of repetition and into it being like spending time with beloved family. I didn’t see anything new or different in it this time; I just loved being back in the company of an old friend.

I don’t reread very much, and when I do it tends to be with a specific purpose – the podcast or book group – and so there are very few books which I return to with this feeling. I won’t leave it ten years ago. At this point, it’s barely even reading – it’s just wallowing, and remembering what it is that I love about reading and books.

Over the years since 2003 I’ve read quite a few other novels by Frank Baker, and none of them hold a candle to Miss Hargreaves. Quite a lot of them aren’t even good. But I am always grateful for this touchstone that does everything that I want a novel to do. Did it form my taste, or does it just answer all the requirements I would have had for a novel even if I hadn’t read it at a formative time? Who knows – either way, thank you to the 1940 Club for giving me an excuse to go back to Cornford.

Bewildering Cares by Winifred Peck – #1940Club

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Goodness knows when I bought Bewildering Cares by Winifred Peck, but it was probably the best part of 15 years ago. Thank goodness for these reading clubs for making me pay attention to the books waiting on my shelves, as I really enjoyed this novel – subtitled ‘a week in the life of a clergyman’s wife’.

Parts of it were published ‘in rather a different form’ (whatever that means) in the Guardian before being collected into a book – which must have happened rather quickly, as it is set in the spring of 1940 and published before the end of that year. Of course, the Second World War moves quickly – and the period it is set in is before Blitzkrieg. It was while war might still feel far off, though still affecting everyday lives in numerous ways, of course. As Peck writes in a little author’s note at the beginning, ‘perhaps the thinks she [the diarist] cares for are coming to seem more, and not less, precious’.

The things she cares for are the lives and squabbles of a community of churchgoers. It all feels very like provincial village life, and indeed Provincial Lady-esque, except she mentions in passing that the population of Stampfield is about 60,000 – more than 200 times the number of people living in my village. But somehow, even in a fairly significantly sized town, everybody seems to know one another and be keenly involved in the details of each other’s lives.

Camilla is the vicar’s wife keeping the diary over the course of the week. It’s not really in diary form, except for aping the popularity of the Provincial Lady technique – and we have a similar range of characters. She has done better than the PL in the husband department – Arthur is kind, gentle, and a little incapable. Much of Camilla’s life seems to be spent in stopping him giving away all their money or shielding him from the criticism of locals. They have an adult son, Dick, who is a soldier but not yet deployed. Their maid is Not What Maids Were Before The War, and Camilla seems to do much of the housework themselves, but they consider her part of the family and tolerate her constantly going to see her boyfriend (who dangles the threat that he might be sent to the front at any moment).

One of the chief interests in reading books from 1940 is seeing a particular moment in wartime. There are little details, like ‘”the pink form” (which has, Dick tells me, a far less polite adjective in the Army)’ – which Peck’s original audience would have understood, I suppose, and seems to have been something connected with income replacement for the wives of soldiers? (I’ve only been able to find this post which mentions the pink form in WW1, which is something rather different.) As Camilla writes:

Like everyone else in Europe, we have lived for these last two years as people who know a thunderstorm is coming, and now the storm is raging all the time, though the lightning has not struck Dick nor ruined our cities yet, and the only thing to do is to turn away from the windows at odd moments and try to forget, as best you may, if you wish to keep your reason.

Despite war being a constant, Camilla notes that people aren’t truly interested in each other’s experiences of it: ‘”What news have you of Dick?” (Everyone asks this, and no-one ever waits for an answer, I notice. Soldiers aren’t news in this war.)’ They are rather more preoccupied with their own local issues – and one of the chief of these in Bewildering Cares is the curate Mr Strang, and a sermon he has recently given in favour of pacifism. People are furious, and Arthur and Camilla find themselves called upon to disown the curate or remonstrate with him in some way. Camilla, in particular, has no wish to do anything so drastic, and spends a lot of the book ingeniously disengaging from conversations with irate parishioners.

It is very quaint to imagine a time when a sermon could become the talk of a town. I certainly enjoyed the theme of faith in Bewildering Cares, and the ways that Camilla writes genuinely and undramatically about her prayer life and relationship with God, as well as the behaviour of other people in the church community. It’s so rare to find Christian faith written about sensitively or sincerely – or even unsneeringly – in recent fiction that I really appreciated how Peck incorporates it into the novel as a fundamental and stable part of Camilla’s life. Peck also writes so well about the mixed feuding and kindness of church communities that I have to assume she was part of one. I even expected that her husband had been a vicar, but apparently he was a schools inspector and later Education Minister in Scotland.

Another lovely feature of Bewildering Cares is seeing mention of other middlebrow authors. Camilla, like so many literary heroines whom we are expected to have some affinity with, is a keen reader and mentions Angela Thirkell, Dorothy Whipple, and Charlotte M. Yonge among others. These sorts of things might feel a bit forced in a historical novel, but much more natural from someone at the time.

Overall, Peck doesn’t have quite the charm and humour of the Provincial Lady, but then who does. I still loved reading Bewildering Cares, learning a bit more about the home front in 1940, and spending time in the company of a heroine whom it was easy to consider a friend.

The Bird in the Tree by Elizabeth Goudge #1940Club

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The Bird in the Tree (1940) is the third Elizabeth Goudge novel I’ve read, after The Middle Window and The Scent of Water, but it was the first one I ever owned. Embarrassingly, I was given it back in 2008 – by Jenny, who used to blog with Teresa at Shelf Love. There was something called ‘buy a friend a book’ and lots of bloggers sent books around the world. I don’t remember who I bought for or where I sent it, but I’m delighted I took part because – 15 years later – I really loved this novel.

The Bird in the Tree is apparently the first of a trilogy of novels about the Eliot family – some of whom are living in Damerosehay, a beautiful home that is not an ancestral pile, but has been acquired relatively recently in a somewhat romantic and characteristically determined move by Lucilla. She is the matriarch of the family, loved and underestimated by all. They respect her steely core, but focus more on the sweet wrappings of it.

She did not know why they found her so deliciously funny, but she was glad that they did, for she knew that the people who can be loved and laughed at together are the most adored.

With her is her unmarried daughter, Margaret, a clergyman son and several visiting grandchildren. Two of her sons have died in the war, including her favourite child, Maurice. This favour has continued to the second generation – his son, David, is also beloved by all. As the novel opens, he is returning and his nephews are delighted to greet him.

From this varied cast of characters, alive and dead, Goudge manages to give us distinct understandings of them all – and the relationships between them, whether close, precarious, or faded. Here, for instance, is David’s relationship with his unmarried aunt – and the final word of the paragraphs takes it in a direction I hadn’t anticipated, but which has such truth to it.

But David, standing where all the Eliot men always stood, in front of the fire so that none of the warmth could reach their female relatives (though to do them justice they did not think of this, Lucilla not having the heart to point it out) threw the evening paper quickly aside and went instantly to meet Margaret. He never forgot for how many years she had done for him all the things that it would have bored Lucilla to do; darned his socks, packed his box for school, ministered to him when as a small boy he was sick in the night; he did not forget, and he never failed to show her a punctilious affection that hurt her intolerably.

David has inherited much of his grandmother’s determination and charm, and he finds it easy to make people love him – but he has far greater stores of selfishness than she does. Luckily things that please him tend to please others too, but there is secret he is holding that threatens to hurt many people and damage many relationships. When Lucilla comes to hear of it, her purpose is to try and dissuade him.

Most of what I loved about The Bird of the Tree was the feeling of being swept away to this family estate. I’m not good with visual descriptions and wouldn’t be able to tell what Damerosehay looked like, but I truly felt like I was there. Goudge conveys its gentleness, its familiarity, its cosiness and security and history – and its resistance to change. I felt at home.

I also loved Goudge’s unashamed story of sacrifice for others. Few modern novelists would expect a character to sacrifice something seemingly vital to him for the sake of other people. The narrative of ‘you have to be true to yourself’ is overwhelmingly dominant now, and Lucilla’s advice may seem old-fashioned to many. But I appreciated the morality of The Bird in the Tree, and the uncloaked way it was shown. While I’m not sure I agreed with all of Lucilla’s beliefs, I really liked the sincerity and faith behind them – the unselfish way she lives them out, and hopes others will also live them out.

What prevents The Bird in the Tree feeling saccharine or simplistically moralistic is Goudge’s excellent observational writing. Here, for instance, David is remembering a time of deep upset in his youth, scared of his father’s increasing illness:

Terrified by it he had fled one evening to the dark attic, slammed the door and flung himself down sobbing upon the floor. He had sobbed for an hour, sobbed himself sick and exhausted until at least, childlike, he had forgotten what it was he was crying about and had become instead absorbed in the moonlight on the floor. It had been like a pool of silver, enclosed and divided up into neat squares by the bars of the window. He had counted the squares and the lines, dark and light, and had been delighted with them. He had touched each with his finger, this way and that, and had been utterly comforted.

It’s a tricky balance, but Goudge treads it expertly. I loved the time I spent at Damerosehay and the spread of characters I met – mostly Lucilla, who charmed me as much as she does everyone else. I hope I manage to read the sequels rather more quickly than I read the first.

Final Edition by E.F. Benson – #1940Club

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I have read E.F. Benson novels for previous club years, and they’re always a frothy and fun addition to any reading project. When I saw that 1940 also had a Benson book, and I had it on my shelves, it was a non-brainer. And it was a really interesting and valuable reading experience – but quite different from anything else I’ve read by him.

The subtitle is ‘An informal autobiography’, and the first words we see are a publisher’s note which opens thus:

Ten days after the manuscript of Final Edition was delivered to the publisher, its author died in University College Hospital on the 29th of February, 1940.

There is no indication of this ill health through the book and, since he sadly died of throat cancer, presumably it was something he knew was quite possible would come soon. Well, I say there is no indication of it – but perhaps it explains the contemplative, slightly subdued tone that is there throughout. Certainly he does not write about his own life and circle with the same flippant wit that he shows in Mapp and Lucia and all the books like it.

And having said that, I did find he started out the book in his most sparkling mode…

I read not long ago in some essay full of witty fireworks that by the time that most autobiographical writers address themselves to their task they seem to have forgotten, through the lapse of memory, everything in their lives which was worth recording. That discouraging verdict haunted me: I turned it over and over in my mind while I was meditating on the pages that follow, but came to the conclusion that, however just it might prove to be in the case that now concerned me, a court of appeal would not, in nine cases out of ten, uphold it. Indeed, as I thought over various very entertaining volumes of the sort which I had recently read, it appeared to me that not only had their writers retained their recollective powers in the most amazing manner, but that some of them had brought up, as an unnecessary reinforcement to memory, imaginations of the most magical kind.

He then goes on to give a few examples of memoirists who wrote in detail about events that couldn’t actually have happened. Is it a warning of what we are expect, or is he setting himself from the sort of autobiographer who gets carried away into greater detail than memory can guarantee?

Certainly, in the pages that follow, Benson keeps himself to stories that couldn’t easily be checked by an external verifier. Final Edition is his chance to reminisce about the places he has lived and the people he knew, and there is surprisingly little about his writing. Only a handful of books are mentioned, and the longest period he lingers on his work is during an extended lament that he spent too much time on frothy books that don’t matter and not enough on well-written books with a point. (I should mention that he doesn’t dismiss the craft of light-hearted, funny novels – but believes he published too many sub-par titles. He doesn’t give any examples of the ones he regrets, so I can’t say if I agree with his assessment or not.)

Thankfully, he does write a bit about Mapp and Lucia. I remember the delight I felt when I first heard that this was a brilliant crossover – Lucia had already appeared in two novels, and Miss Mapp in one, before he decided to bring them together. Can you imagine how fun that would have been as a contemporary fan? Here’s what he says about the genesis of the idea:

I outlined an elderly atrocious spinster and established her in Lamb House. She should be the centre of social life, abhorred and dominant, and she should sit like a great spider behind the curtains in the garden-room, spying on her friends, and I knew that her name must be Elizabeth Mapp. Rye should furnish the topography, so that no one who knew Rye could possibly be in doubt where the scene was laid, and I would call it Tilling because Rye has its river the Tillingham… Perhaps another preposterous woman, Lucia of Riseholme, who already had a decent and devout following, and who was as dominant as Mapp, might come into contact with her some day, when I had got to know Mapp better. 

These reflections come from another vein that flows through Final Edition – Benson’s experiences with Rye. He started as a visitor, to Henry James, and ended up living in the same house that had previously been home to James. Two more different novels it would be difficult to imagine, so it’s fun that they both knew each other and called the same place home. I always love people writing about their homes, and Benson is engaging and touching when writing about Lamb House, about local Rye lore, and about his tenure as mayor.

Otherwise, the main focus of Final Edition is the people that Benson has known – particularly his brothers, A.C. Benson and Robert Benson. While there is clearly some deep-seated love between the three, there were minimal affinities between them. E.F. Benson lived rather longer than either of his brothers, so he has the last word on their reputations – and certainly doesn’t appreciate the modes in which they chose to specialise. A.C. Benson wrote essays and academia, and EFB believes that he quashed his natural spiky wit to turn his hand to something toothlessly comforting. Robert Benson, meanwhile, became a Catholic – later a Catholic priest – with a fervour that EFB obviously can’t appreciate. He also wrote a good deal of fiction, which EFB doesn’t think highly of – perhaps an unfortunate choice as literary executor. He tells a story of a time when they all impersonated one another’s writings, at their mother’s suggestion – and everybody enjoyed the satires that were not of their own work. A fascinating demonstration of how brothers can be so different, and the slanted ways they view one another.

Other people that E.F. Benson concentrates on are largely people I haven’t heard of. It is perhaps self-indulgent of a memoirist to write at length about his friends, but somehow Benson does it in a way that is fascinating even to the stranger. I think, perhaps, because he builds them like literary characters – albeit with more realism than his most witty creations. He does not spare them by being dishonest. Here, for instance, is his take on a friend called Brooks whose dream was literature and whose output was poor:

Browning tells us of the scholar who aimed at a million and missed it by a unit. Brooks aimed at a million and missed it by a million. But I respect that aim; it was sincere, and, though utterly barren in result, there was no sort of pose or sham about it. I daresay that if instead of aiming at a million, he had aimed at a unit, he would have missed that too, and in that case I should have found nothing to say about him that could warrant pen on paper, for a man who aims low and is eternally incompetent of hitting his mark, does not arouse either pity or interest. But to aim high, though with whatever futility and indolence, is a different matter.

Benson obviously takes writing intensely seriously, and I’ll end with a couple of passages I enjoyed on that topic – chiefly the ‘modern’ mode of writing in 1940 (which goes to show that every generation ends by thinking the next generation is choosing shock over beauty, even within the relatively unshocking world of 1940s fiction). I could have read Benson’s thoughts on writing for many more pages:

My other business, that of getting some sort of status again as a writer, was proving very difficult. The back-water into which my industrious laziness had drifted me, had carried me a long way, and by diligently reading some of the admired authors of the day I perceived how completely, as regards fiction, I had dropped out. Some I found hard to follow, and others, as regards style, had acquired lucidity by a blank disregard of euphony: they were full of jerks. To make your meaning clear, as everybody knows, though your meaning may be difficult to grasp, is an essential of decent prose, but I did not care so much about this jerkiness. I had always found an aesthetic pleasure in appreciating with the ear the sentences which the eye followed, and my ear was offended by the abrupt noises which it sensed below the print. I demand — for myself — that prose should have a certain intrinsic beauty of its own quite apart from the meaning it conveys. This beauty is quite consistent with the utmost lucidity and does not depend at all on decoration. The best example I know of it is the Gospels in the Authorised Version of the New Testament: their style reminds one of Holbein’s portrait of the Duchess of Milan.

[…]

I should have liked some of these authors, just for a change, to expose (even with a furtive air of betraying guilty secrets) fine impulses and high endeavour. The mirror which it is the function of Art to hold up to Nature, seemed to be always adjusted to reflect what lies below the belt: the heart and the brain (with the exception of the department of sexual urge) were outside the field of vision. I did not miss the message that this literature conveyed: it said, plainly enough, that sexual desire is as natural a craving as hunger or thirst, which everybody knew before.

So Final Edition wasn’t at all the sort of autobiography I was expecting from E.F. Benson, but I wholeheartedly enjoyed it. More sombre and steely-eyed than I was expecting, and a bit of a revelation into the nature and perspective of a witty novelist whose creations I have so enjoyed.

1940 Club: All your reviews! #1940Club

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Here’s the page where I’ll be gathering all the 1940 Club reviews – pop your link in the comments. If you don’t have anywhere online to put your review, then feel free to write it out in the comments.

Happy reading!

Black Plumes by Margery Allingham
Sarah Matthews
Literary Potpourri

Journey into Fear by Eric Ambler
AnnaBookBel
Gallimaufry Book Studio

Miss Hargreaves by Frank Baker
Harriet Devine
Stuck in a Book
Finding Time To Write
What Me Read
Driekie’s Bookshelf

Visitors From London by Kitty Barne
Meli @ Bag Full of Books

Central Stores by Vicki Baum
Neglected Books

Final Edition by E.F. Benson
Stuck in a Book

The Children of Cherry Tree Farm by Enid Blyton
Literary Potpourri

The Naughtiest Girl in the School by Enid Blyton
Staircase Wit

The Secret of Spiggy Holes by Enid Blyton
Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings

Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius by Jorge Luis Borges
Calmgrove

Kallocain by Karin Boye
Words and Peace

A Scream in Soho by John G. Brandon
Literary Potpourri

Testament of Friendship by Vera Brittain
ANZ Litlover

The Tartar Steppe by Dino Buzzati
Kinship of all Species

The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares
Finding Time To Write
Mr Kaggsy

Sapphira and the Slave Girl by Willa Cather
Reviews in a Nutshell
Bookish Beck

Beneath the Visiting Moon by Romilly Cavan
Bag Full of Books

Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler
Lizzie Humphreys

The Saint in Miami by Leslie Charteris
Typings

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe by Agatha Christie
Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings
Literary Potpourri
Becky’s Book Reviews

Sad Cypress by Agatha Christie
Becky’s Book Reviews
What Me Read
The Whipple Line
Witchy Reading

Wilson and Some Others by G.D.H. and Margaret Cole
A Hot Cup of Pleasure

E.E. Cummings’ poetry
Typings

Unexpected Night by Elizabeth Daly
Buch Post

Mariana by Monica Dickens
Literary Potpourri
Lizzie Humphreys

And So To Murder by Carter Dickson
My Reader’s Block

Nine – and Death Makes Ten by Carter Dickson
My Reader’s Block

Quietly My Captain Waits by Evelyn Eaton
Brian Bushby

The Hangman’s Whip by Mignon G. Eberhart
A Hot Cup of Pleasure

Who Pays the Piper by Dora Amy Elles
The Book Decoder

Blue Willow by Doris Gates
Staircase Wit

The Bird in the Tree by Elizabeth Goudge
She Reads Novels
Stuck in a Book

The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene
Witchy Reading
Winston’s Dad

The Corinthian by Georgette Heyer
Staircase Wit
Desperate Reader
What Me Read
Witchy Reading

The Spanish Bride by Georgette Heyer
She Reads Novels

The so Blue Marble by Dorothy B Hughes
A Hot Cup of Pleasure
She Reads Novels
Witchy Reading
Bitter Tea and Mystery

The Big Sea by Langston Hughes
What Me Read

A London Family Between the Wars by M.V. Hughes
Stuck in a Book

He Looked For a City by A.S.M. Hutchinson
A Hot Cup of Pleasure

The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder
The Whipple Line
Becky’s Book Reviews

The Secret Vanguard by Michael Innes
Harriet Devine

Biggles in the Baltic by Captain W.E. Johns
Journey & Destination

Mystery of the Brass-Bound Trunk by Carolyn Keene
Rhode Reads

Darkness at Noon by Arthur Koestler
1st Readings

Pat the Bunny by Dorothy Kunhardt
Young Readers

The Norths Meet Murder by Frances and Richard Lockridge
A Hot Cup of Pleasure

Death at Dyke’s Corner by E.C.R. Lorac
Briefer Than Literal Statement

Betsy-Tacy by Maud Hart Lovelace
Young Readers
Staircase Wit

Conversations in Bolzano by Sàndor Màrai
Winston’s Dad

Death at the Bar by Ngaio Marsh
Journey & Destination

Surfeit of Lamps by Ngaio Marsh
Staircase Wit
Typings

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers
1streadings
The Whipple Line

Murder in Miniatures by Sam Merwin, Jnr.
My Reader’s Block

Pigeon Pie by Nancy Mitford
The Whipple Line
Fanda Classiclit

The Inspiration by Myra Morris
Whispering Gums

Inside the Whale by George Orwell
Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings

The Grassleyes Mystery by E. Phillips Oppenheim
The Book Decoder

Bewildering Cares by Winifred Peck
Stuck in a Book

Verdict of Twelve by Raymond Postgate
Scones and Chaise Longues

The Big Six by Arthur Ransome
Pining for the West

Death on the Boat Train by John Rhode
A Hot Cup of Pleasure

Murder at Lilac Cottage by John Rhode
A Hot Cup of Pleasure

The Great Mistake by Mary Roberts Rinehart
A Hot Cup of Pleasure

Bleeding Hooks by Harriet Rutland
Read Warbler

Three Early Stories by J.D. Salinger
What Me Read

Peter and Paul by Susan Scarlett
Elle Thinks

Ten Way Street by Susan Scarlett
Adventures in Reading, Running and Working from Home

Horton Hatches the Egg by Dr Seuss
Young Readers

The Stone of Chastity by Margery Sharp
Fanda Classiclit
Madame Bibi Lophile Recommends
Adventures in reading, running and working from home

Murder in a Nunnery by Eric Shepherd
Bitter Tea and Mystery

The Strangers in the House by Georges Simenon
JacquiWine
Lizzy’s Literary Life

Caps for Sale by Esphyr Slobodkina
Young Readers

Strangers and Brothers by C.P. Snow
Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings

Paris France by Gertrude Stein
Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings

The English Air by D.E. Stevenson
Adventures in Reading, Running and Working from home
Brona’s Books
HeavenAli
Scones and Chaise Longues

England Was An Island Once by Elswyth Thane
Staircase Wit

Portrait of the Artist as  a Young Dog by Dylan Thomas
Bookish Beck

Troubled Waters by Roger Vercel
A Hot Cup of Pleasure

Mrs Skeffington by Elizabeth von Arnim
Reviews in a Nutshell
Pining for the West
Pear Jelly

At a House Called Hassocks by Marigold Watney
A Hot Cup of Pleasure

Inquest by Percival Wilde
My Reader’s Block

Danger at the Drawbridge by Mildred A. Wirt
My Reader’s Block

Eggs, Beans and Crumpets by P.G. Wodehouse
Stuck in a Book

The Disappearance of General Jason by P.C. Wren
A Hot Cup of Pleasure

Coming soon: The 1940 Club!

StuckinaBook All 16 Comments

I’m heading away from the blog until just after Easter, so I will give warning now that the 1940 Club is just around the corner – time to ready your book or books, if you haven’t done yet!

For those new to this – every six months Karen and I ask people to read books published in the same year and put reviews online wherever you put reviews (blog, GoodReads, Instagram, etc). Any sort of book from anywhere in the world is welcomed – the only rule is that it was first published in 1940.

(If you’re looking for a tip… Miss Hargreaves was published that year!)

I’m really excited to see how the club week turns out. Not long now!