Subject: a neglected master
From: Scottie Bowman (rbowman@indigo.ie)
Date: Sun Nov 05 2000 - 17:44:56 GMT
At last, I now possess a copy of Hapworth 16 - thanks to
the great kindness of an old friend whose name I must
suppress to avert the pathetic & self-inflated litigiousness
of You Know Who.
Here it lies in front of me - 27 pages of dense, 9 pt Arial
Narrow, the great slabs of type stretching ahead, one after
another, like the paving stones into Hell. I haven't read it
yet - though I shall, I shall - but already in the very first
paragraph we have that inimitably chi-chi, tautological style
writhing into position: 'died, committed suicide, opted to
discontinue living…'
For Crissake.
It happens that around the same time the young Seymour
came down the wire, I had reason to look up Somerset Maugham's
collection of essays On Literature. Among many other sensible
things, Willy suggests that the very first duty of a novelist is
to ENTERTAIN. It reminded me so vividly of all the ravishing
pleasure he'd afforded me as I sat down (or lay down) drooling
with anticipation at the prospect of being drawn into one or
other of his compelling narratives with their witty & worldly
characters - Of Human Bondage, Cakes & Ale, The Moon & Sixpence,
The Razor's Edge ... the Ashenden stories & the other ones ...
Not to mention the plays.
What a wealth the man created. And in a style so plain & effortlessly
limpid that only gentlemen accustomed to the very best can recognise
it.
Not fashionable now, of course. Not portentous. Not significant.
But to paraphrase Ernest in connection with another modish icon:
if I thought that sprinkling a little shredded Salinger over the grave
of Willy Maugham could resurrect the latter, I'd already be on
my way to Cornish with my trusty meat grinder.
Scottie B.
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