Foreword
The pieces collected here were, with one exception, produced on requestmostly, of course, as reviews, for it is an unexpected consequence of becoming known as a writer that you are assumed to be competent to assess other writers. But for every request complied with, several others were declined, for which either the time or the interest or the capability was lacking. It was, of course, flattering to be asked, but only up to a point: newspapers and magazines have to be filled, and if you wont do it someone else will. It is only the very prolific or the very needy who can afford to say yes to everything.
There is little coherence, therefore, in what is here reprinted. I have never proposed to an editor that I should write this article or review that book, so that what I produced was someone elses idea rather than my own. This is not to say that such tasks were undertaken lightly. A good reviewer combines the knowledge of the scholar with the judgement and cogency of the critic and the readability of the journalist, and knowing how far I fell short of this ideal made me all the more laboriously anxious to do the best I could. I have heard it said that anyone who has spent three years writing a weekly essay for his tutor finds literary journalism easy: I didnt. I found reading the books hard, thinking of something to say about them hard, and saying it hardest of all. That I persisted was due to the encouragement of friendly literary editors, in particular Bill Webb of the Guardian, Karl Miller of the Spectator, the New Statesman and the Listener (and now, of course, the London Review of Books ), and Anthony Thwaite of the Listener, the New Statesman and Encounter, and I should like to record my gratitude to them, reluctant though my response may have been at the time.
The piece written on my own initiative was the introduction to All What Jazz (1970), the collection of jazz record reviews I had written for the Daily Telegraph between 1960 and 1968. I had originally intended to publish that book privately, which is why it was printed by the now defunct firm Hull Printers; my publishers took it over only when I wrote asking if they would be prepared to distribute it. This may also account for the light-heartedly aggressive tone of what I wrote, and the enjoyment with which I wrote it. In fact I went on reviewing records until the end of 1971, and a few pieces from these last three years have been included along with the introduction.
Although I rarely accepted a literary assignment without a sinking of the heart, nor finished it without an inordinate sense of relief, to undertake such commissions no doubt exercised part of my mind that would otherwise have remained dormant, and to this extent they probably did me no harm. They are now reprinted because some of them have begun to be quoted out of context, and I should like to reiterate the latter, especially their dates. They will, I hope, also carry the rest, whose exhumation would otherwise hardly be justified.
Apart from minor verbal amendments, the pieces are reprinted as they first appeared. The order is chronological by date of publication except for the section Recollections, where the order is chronological by subject-matter.
P.L.
February 1982
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to Betty Mackereth for her help in converting a wilderness of press cuttings into something resembling an ordered text, to Catherine Carver for patiently freeing that text from inconsistencies, inaccuracies and inelegances, and to Monica Jones for giving the proofs a second, much-needed reading.
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For permission to reprint reviews and articles the publishers acknowledge the following with gratitude:
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Antiquarian Booksellers Association, Books; The Cornhill, It Could Only Happen in England; Critical Quarterly, Mrs Hardys Memories, Wanted: Good Hardy Critic; the Daily Telegraph, Just a Little While, Coverage, Blues Bash, Law, Basie, Moment of Truth, Wells or Gibbon?, Minority Interest, Vocals, What Armstrong Did; Encounter, A Neglected Responsibility, The Real Wilfred, Dull Beyond Description; English Literary Renaissance, The Changing Face of Andrew Marvell; Faber and Faber, Introduction to Jill , Introduction to The North Ship , Vernon Watkins, Introduction to All What Jazz ; FVS Foundation, Hamburg, Subsidizing Poetry; the Guardian, Freshly Scrubbed Potato, Grub Village, All Right When You Knew Him; Kenyusha, Japan, Statement; Library Association Record, Single-handed and Untrained; the Listener, The Poetry of William Barnes, The War Poet, The Poetry of Hardy; the Marvell Press, The Pleasure Principle from Listen II; New Fiction, The Booker Prize 1977; the New Statesman, Masters Voices, Missing Chairs, Frivolous and Vulnerable, The Apollo Bit, The Most Victorian Laureate, Big Victims, Mr Powells Mural; the Observer, The Great Gladys, Interview with the Observer , The Girls; Oxford University Press, Palgraves Last Anthology: A.E. Housmans Copy, from the Review of English Studies, vol XXII; Paris Review, An Interview with Paris Review , Paris Review, 1982; Poetry Book Society Bulletin, Writing Poems; Poetry Review, Horror Poet; Punch, Supreme Sophisticate; the Spectator, The Savage Seventh, Carnival in Venice, Hounded, Whats Become of Wystan?, The Blending of Betjeman, The Traffic in the Distance; the Times Literary Supplement, The World of Barbara Pym, The Batman from Blades; University of Leicester Convocation Review, Early Days at Leicester.
RECOLLECTIONS
Introduction to Jill
I
An American critic recently suggested that Jill contained the first example of that characteristic landmark of the British post-war novel, the displaced working-class hero. If this is true (and it sounds fair trend-spotters comment), the book may hold sufficient historical interest to justify republication. But again, if it is true, I feel bound to say that it was unintentional. In 1940 our impulse was still to minimize social differences rather than exaggerate them. My heros background, though an integral part of the story, was not what the story was about.
As a matter of fact, the Oxford of that autumn was singularly free from such traditional distinctions. The war (American readers may need reminding) was then in its second year. Conscription had begun with the twenties and upwards, but everyone knew that before long the nineteens and the eighteens would take their turn. In the meantime, undergraduates liable for service could expect three or four terms at the most: if they wished then to become officers, they drilled with the ununiformed Officers Training Corps half a day a week (later they got uniforms and drilled a day and a half a week).
Life in college was austere. Its pre-war pattern had been dispersed, in some instances permanently. Everyone paid the same fees (in our case, 12s a day) and ate the same meals. Because of Ministry of Food regulations, the town could offer little in the way of luxurious eating and drinking, and college festivities, such as commemoration balls, had been suspended for the duration. Because of petrol rationing, nobody ran a car. Because of clothes rationing, it was difficult to dress stylishly. There was still coal in the bunkers outside our rooms, but fuel rationing was soon to remove it. It became a routine after ordering ones books in Bodley after breakfast to go and look for a cake or cigarette queue.