Pamela Talks of This and That

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 424, 4 August 1928, Page 27

Pamela Talks of This and That

(Continued from Page 26) This, I am convinced, is the only way to write a book. It has a ceremony and an elegance about it that the methods of an ordinary author sadly lack. No jotting down notes on the hack of an envelope for d’Annunzio, no fingering a typewriter, no mad frenzy of creation in an attic. Only a leisurely, beautiful manner or writing for him, a delicate, angelic concentration on word and form with the knowledge that if a tourist or an assassin attempted to get nearer than his park gates the man would he promptly run through by a bayonet as one pins a butterfly into a specimen case. Imagine Edgar Wallace or Arnold Bennett writing under suc-h conditions —but one couldn’t. Scotland, progressive country, has been oblivious to all the recent wrangling over the prayer book, and has cut the hated word “obey” out of the marriage service and substituted that meek creature, “cherish.” Can you wonder, therefore, that all the brides who do not wish to obey and who are yet bound by conscience to fulfil their promises, are rushing northwards daily by the Flying Scotsman? It is Gretna Green over again. The only question that arises is—whether on crossing into England again the “obey” comes automatically into use once more. If this is so I can imagiue that all the husband go to Scotland with their tongues in their cheeks knowing that their turn will come later. The New Zealand Channel swimmer —or rather would-be Channel swimmer—has arrived in England, and it is the earnest prayer of all loyal New Zealanders in England that she will succeed. But why has she come to England to swim the Channel —surely she has one of her own between the North and South Islands, and a goodly stretch of water between New Zealand and Australia. This passion for the Channel is very odd. To begin with, the water is never clean and the temperature seldom much above zero even in summer. Every time I cross from Dover to Calais I am filled with amazement that people should wish to swim in such a sea—or rather, I ponder on this question until circumstances over which I have no control force me into that comatose state where thought is a myth and mind does not exist, and the only possible prayer is, “Oil, God, let us he wrecked as soon as possible!” Psychology has taken a new turn and given Mr. Freud the slip for a time. It is now devoting all its energies to foretelling the career of every child as soon as it is born. The psychologist arrives soon after the birth of the child, looks at it long and profoundly, and then remarks grimly to the parents, “Make him a non-com-missioned officer in the 10th Dragons,” or “Lock him up from the time he is two, otherwise he will spend the greater part of his life in a cell at Wandsworth.” All this will be a great help to those rare parents who have not very strong intentions for their ciiildren. On the other hand, it may stir up some strife among those families in which the sons inevitably and interminably follow in the fathers’ footsteps. • Hark, I hear the tumult rising in the Lane. Can it be —yes it is! One moment, while I dash out and get a paper. Later: I don’t know where my money has gone to, but it is certain that it will not return upon the waters to me, not even after many days. . . . I am not at all sure that I really like Derby Day after all.