Our Fortnightly Book Review

Radio Record, Volume IV, Issue 39, 10 April 1931, Unnumbered Page

Our Fortnightly Book Review

SOLO TO SYDNEY

By

F. C.

CHICHESTER

REPRINTED from contributions to "Punch" is;>a collection of witty icles, entitled. "Things That Annoy Me,’ by "Evoe,’ which is certainly a volume to be added to-the book-shelves of the elect. Concerning this publication, a misanthropic correspondent, an admirer of the brilliant Mr. Knox, writes to me suggesting compilation of & composite volume,. by a syndicate of temperamentalists, reviling particular antipathies.’ He cites.the applicability, for instance, of chapters .on The Hauteur of the Highbrow, Wgoistie Anecdote, Psaople Who Interrupt, Meaningless Merriment, The Dolours of Dentistry, Baby Talk (by. grown-ups), and Pomeranian Dogs. Heartily I concur, for 1 also have my little list, * * * TSH news that the famous English \ essayist and dramatic critic, Mr. ames Agate, has made two records for His Master’s Voice; causes one to register intetition to disinter family gramophone, purchase the records in question, in order to hear’ spoken work of one who long has been a friend of the fireside, in those households where literature and the drama are mutters of moment. Of a mordant wit, combined with delightful bonhomie that neyer fails to’ appeal, Mr. Agate’s friends and followers are legion. So that one longs to listen to his exposition on "My Job" and "Great Nights at the Theatre," particularly as I am assured by one who has heard him over the wireless in London, that, in addition to his ‘other attractive attributes, Mr. Agate’ is possessed of a voice of admirable inflections and ‘timbre a: * GPRAKING recently at the Festival ‘ of the’ Scottish Association for the Speaking of Verse, the Poet Laureate made valuable comment on the opportunilies presented by wireless. Mr. Masefield said that. broadeasting could be a very great asset in the dissemination of poetry, and expressed the belief that, if the broadcasting people would work with the poets, Hngland might possess one of the most remarkable schools of poetry that we have had for centuries. These remarks by our brilJiant Laureate will doubtless meet with warm response from the not inconsiderable number of lovers of poetry in this Dominion. There are many who would Yejoice to hear over the air some majestic strophe « of Greek drama or lilting eadences of the late Robert Bridges, interpreted, Say, by Miss Mary Cooley ; or on & hallowed anniversary. listen to the melodious voice of 2 certain gifted speaker in our midst rendering vocal Rupert Brooke’s lovely sonnets or the faery song of some Irish poet,

HE dull weeks come and go, day’s | work and day’s play pursue their even course Without haste and without pause, until of a sudden comes a boit from the blue, tidings of a. great deed or startling achievement, threading With colour of romance the warp of everyday weaving. Such, for example, was the news that flashed to us when Mr. Francis Chichester flung challenge to fate, took his life in- his hands, and in his now famous Gypsy Moth, "Blijah," attempted solo flight from KEngland to Australian, after extremely short and circumscribed study of the principles of aviation. As the world knows, Mr. Chichester was successful in reaching the goal of his desire, and ina recently published book entitled "Solo to Sydney" he tells the story of that thrilling and hazardous journey, after a perusal of which the mundane world retreats into the shadows, and air and sea and space appear the fitting environment. AS the great saga unfolds, one feels that, had. the Grent War not ended when Mr. Chichester was just eighteen years of age, another name would haye been recorded on the roll of hononr of that cataclysm; for in this youthful Hnglishman, who proclaims himself son by adoption of our own Dominion, are combined those qualities of grit, invincible determination. and scouting of danger, coupled with a zest for adventure and blithe disregard of overwhelming odds, which we have Jearned from experience are characteristic of the finest of our race. The story of Mr. Chichester’s arrival in New Zealand, without money or friends, and subsequent steady forging ahead in backblocks, bushland and mining camp, are too well known to require recapitulation here. I recall, however, that twelve years ago, on a small matter of business, there strolled into my office a stranger lad of eighteen with an attractive manner and, as it transpired, a taste for literature. Poles

apart as we were in years and outlook, we "clicked" on a predilection for certain writers and an interest in the ramifications of journalism. For the space of a few months we held much converse together; but after a time this unusual youth, as yet "with no deeds done, but great deeds undone," passed from my knowledge, and I heard no more of him until news came of Mr. Ohichester’s trial flight over Nurope, and [ recognised in the daring aviator the ambitious youth of a decade ago, whom J had then picked as i winner, though in a different milieu. "Solo to Sydney," with its interesting introduction by Baron yon Zedlitz,’ is un enthralling chronicle to those possesseL of imaginative vision and cipscity to thrill in response to heroic -endeayour and disdain of danger, and breathlessly we follow the noble story of this Ulysses-like wandering, told as it is in simple, terse language, with no trace of smug self-satisfaction, und interspersed occasionally with expressive schoolboy slang. Something of terror and splendour of the mighty trék is conveyed, and vicariously we participate in its thrills, triumphs and despairs. . Jugo-Slavia, Persi:, Arabia, the mouths of the Ganges are pussed by, savage races encountered, and hundreds of unforgettable incidents recorded, until the slmost insuperable obstacles of the last stages of the historie journey are overcome. At this juncture the author of the book reflects: "I shall .soon: he a2 slave again to petiy ‘cireumstance and petty officials, In the air--well, perhaps, one was a slave there as much. Yet how much greater the deities served: Iather Time, as usual; Aurora, goddess of dawn; Vesper, goildess of night; Jupiter, god of thunder ; and, lastly, Minerva." Of one dreaded peril he writes: "I began to feel sleepy, and when the dirty grey storm clouds warned me of ap[roaching daybreak, the sleepiness be-

came an agony. If I jumped up, fT was asleep before I leaned back in my seat. If I jerked my head forward, I was asleep before I could reverse the movement. Something inside me felt stark, elemental. As I looked out at black masses of towering mountains, at rugged precipices dropping sheer ine to the sea, and, on the. other side, dul glazed surface of Mediterranean under threatening clouds, I felt myself 2 speetator at the very beginning of creation,"

R. BERNARD SHAW, his morals, mind and manners, are of a perennial interest, soit is somewhat arrestJng to read of what captured the sage ‘when he was a romantic, and, one guesses, an extremely difficult and obstinate boy. The books which from time immemorial haye captured the vagrant faney of youth inspired in him no enthusiasm whatever, Thus bluntly does he express himself in an English paper: "I loathed and despised children’s books from the accursed ‘Robinson Crusoe’ onward. ‘I hated them for their dishonesty, their hypocrisy, their sickly immorality and their damnable dullness.. Even as 4 child, my penetrating literary judgment; as well as my moral sense, was sound." The literary giant names "The Arabian Nights" and "The Pilgvim’s Progress’ as the two great sensations of his childhood, finding in them us he did the authentie note of genius, and . characteristically conGudes: "Dhis shows that I was as good a eritie in my infaney as T am now, though I conld not then’ bring such brilliant reasoning to support my opinion." * * IN "iva Years" Mr. Liam 0’Flaherty has presenied his readers with @ vigorous and revolting human docn- ment. In his pages, partly, it is judged, of an autobiographical character, we are brought into-contact with men and manners of many climes and elastic code, the majority being of the down-and-out stratum of humanity. We are introduced io the-seamy side of life as it exists in Tondon, New York, stokehole of a dirty ocean tramp, Boston, Toronto, and the beach at Rio. De‘"adent types abound in a series of vivid thumbnail sketches, exploiting types that range trom lovely Russian intelJectuual affinity to remarkable examples of senility, depravity and lust; wretched poverty and strange callings being depicted without fear or favour, Through it all we are aware of a brilliant, unstable.’ restless personality, with a mind at war. with convention, law and order, and habitually "agin the government" in all its ramifications,