The Faggot— A Bookman’s Bundle

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 80, 25 June 1927, Page 25

The Faggot — A Bookman’s Bundle

Anne douglas sedgwick on the subject of novel-writing in general, and her own work in particular: I can’t think of any rule in regard to novel writing that 1 could formulate. Life—more abundant life—is all that one can ask of a novel, and it is because in Tolstoi the sense of life’s depth and abundance is given so matchlessly that I care for him so much. Dostoievski is as great, and perhaps more sublime, but he does not affect one as having the same security of outlook. A novel should have this security, and be sober and beautiful if possible. I care very much for form and unity, but I am aware that they are difficult to perceive in Tolstoy. And a novel should not be sentimental, or affected, or dull. That is all tthat I can find to say of the should find should not. My books always start with people —'imaginary always, yet often to be traced to past memories. I usually ace their faces very clearly. The background rises to fit them, and the s’tuation to express them. I never begin with a biographical sketch. I have the story as a whole in my mind before I begin, and I usually start with the first chapter, and write straight through, going back in loops, as it were, to rewrite, and forward to grasp essential scenes that often rise up doininatingty, and can’t wait till their time comes. The key scenes are usually written before the book really ends, and give me points to work towards. I write and rewrite three or four times, and. of course, the book is often greatly altered before I am finally satisfied that I have done with my idea all that I can do. * * * Mr Bernard Shaw contributes an extremely amusing preface to “Three Plays by William Archer.” The late William Archer, he tells us, was incorruptible as a dramatic critic: In his day there were two methods of amiable corruption in vogue. One was called simply Chicken and Champagne, which explains itself. The second method was almost a routine. It consisted in feeing the critic with £SO or so to translate some foreign play and then forgetting to send him the play. The managers did this, 1 believe, rather because it was the fashion, and almost the due of a leading critic, than with any sense that the proposal was in any way improper. Certainly the three late distinguished actor-managers who made it to me when I was a critic thought no worse of it than tipping a waiter. The Oxford University Press has recently issued “Hymns of Western Europe.” Mr Lloyd George contributes a preface, from which the following extract is taken: The need [of an accepted standard] is accentuated by a diversity of use and practice which has already passed beyond the bounds of a reasonble freedom. It is the more to be lamented because of the important part which hymn-singing occupies in corporate worship; by its appeal to the congregation as a whole, by its contribution to the service of praise, and by its power, if rightly employed, of stimulating and ennobling religious emotion. . . . There is no part which, in current practice, is treated with more indifference and neglect. Most hymnals intended for congregational use are far too large and far too comprehensive; they admit examples, both of words and of music, the counterparts of which would be excluded without question from prayer or homily; it is a matter of common experience that this vital portion of our service has been marred by the Intrusion of verses and melodies which in point of purity, of dignity, of reverence, fall short of the ideal which worship rightly should demand. . . . There is a tendency at the present time to sing almost all hymns too fast and particularly those which have broad and simple melodies. This means a loss of dignity and reverence which has no countervailing excuse: it may easily degenerate into a tone of levity which is equally unsuited to place and purpose.

An Irving story from H. Chance Newton’s “Cues and Curtain Calls”:

It chanced that Irving was standing in the Lyceum vestibule one afternoon, talking with his manager of this impending bicentenary performance, when he noticed the famous actor Charles Dillon passing by. “Why, there’s dear old Dillon!” he exclaimed, and dfcshed ouf to greet that then still vigorous veteran. “Ah, Mr Dillon!” said Irving. “This is indeed a pleasure! It is years since we met. I hope you are well?” “Sir!” thundered Dillon, “you advantage of me! Who are you, sir?” “I am Henry Irving,” gently responded the Lyceum star. “Surely you recall me, Mr Dillon! Why, I had the pleasure of supporting you in the provinces on the occasion of several of your starring engagements ” “No, sir!” growled Dillon. “I do not recall you! Nothing occurs to me concerning you—or your name!” Irving went on, attempting to arouse some slight recollection of himself in Dillon. “I might perhaps remind you,” quoth ■lrving, “that more than once I had the great privilege of playing Cassio —yes, even Cassio—to your grandly pathetic Othello” (and Dillon’s Othello Was that), “and J remember with great gratitude your kind words of encouragement, so welcome to so young an actor as I was. I remember, and with pride, dear Mr Dillon, thal you said to me: ‘I regard you as showing a good deal of promise, Irving, my boy!’ ”

And then Dillon, in front of the very theatre placarded with posters of “Henry Irving as Hamlet,” retorted meditatively: “Irving? H’m, ye—es. Irving! I seem to remember the name. . . . And what are you doing NOW, Irving?”

The “Books and Authors” column of the “Observer” is highly complimentary to a new publisher, Mr Noel Douglas, and to his series of “Replicas”: Even yet the “Noel Douglas Replicas” are insufficiently known. We have reiterated that as exact facsimiles of famous original editions, yet published at a manageable price, they know no rivalry. The next half-dozen are to be as enchanting as their predecessors. Imagine them. “The Poems of Keats, 1£17,” is the edition that Shelley hedd when he died. Shelley’s own “Adonais, 1821,” mirrors the beautiful Pisa printing. Ben Jonson’s “Alchemist,” a supreme play, is the image of the only quarto edition, issued in 1612. Of Spenser’s “Amoretti and Epithalamion,” a book of 1595, only seven copies are known, and we have the copy of one of these. Sir Thomas Browne’s “Hydrfotaphia r Urne Buriall” is given jusl as it ap>eared in 1658, a year before Cromwell died; and we may possess Goldsmith’s “Deserted Village” as it was first read for repose from Ihe furious din about Wilkes and Liberty. * * * Mr C. R. Allen, whose name is familiar to readers of The Sun, has a book of fantasies coming out with Messrs Basil Blackwell, of Oxford. His novel, “Tarry, Knight!” is on the way to New Zealand. * * * Mr Hilaire Belloc takes a holiday, and roughs it: “I know that there is expected of the wretches who live by the pen, upon every occasion, fine writing or fiction. I beg leave for a little holiday therefrom. ... In one form or another each of these advantages are to be found here and there.”