third twist of the geographical conscience. The idea seems a possible one to me still, but I have never found in the Common World the necessary third twist.
An idea for a novel also came to me. The scene was a rather large, ruined old house, and the story would pass from room to room, always avoiding the attic,until the reader began to wonder what there was in the attic. Only in the last chapter would we see inside. The attic would be littered with scraps of old newspapers, and in putting these together the reader would finally discover what the novel was about.
The opening sentences of the story were all that made their way across into the Common World.
IN THE ATTIC
I doubt if the furnished flat which I had chosen to buy would have pleased anyone but myself. But as soon as the lift reached the top floor and I saw the cracks in the door, it was as though the flat held out a hand to me in welcome; it seemed to say, in a voice that creaked like itself, ‘How good it is to see you here again.’
My few friends never understood my new friendship. All they saw was the decrepitude of my dwelling: hinges gone, cracks in the ceiling, a basin that leaked, a radiator that gave no heat. The state of the kitchen didn’t trouble me, for most of the food I had enjoyed when I was young could now be bought in tins. I remember still the first night I spent there, and the dream I had. The dream, like all dreams, had many gaps, passages which memory has failed to retain. I sometimes wonder whether the memory is often a merciful censor, so that even a nightmare has been trimmed of the worst terror by the time we open our eyes.
As in the Common World, writing in the World of My Own has an almost nightmare side. On May 3, 1983, I started revising a typescript of my book
Getting to Know the General
. I found it impossibly bad. There were long, rambling sentences that led nowhere.
The next night I was working on my novel
Monsignor Quixote
and I realized that a whole long stretch of it was boring. I decided to amputate this whole section, but that would entail completely altering the end with the monsignor’s death, and what other end could the book have?
In June 1965 I was rehearsing a play which I had adapted from a rather bad translation. My experience as actor-director was very similar to what I had experienced in 1964 in the World which was not My Own, when I was working on
Carving a Statue
. Peter Wood, who had directed that play, was now again directing, and Ralph Richardson was again playingthe principal part with his usual flamboyant, false
bonhomie
and determination to get his own way. He continually wanted to revert to the old literal translation, which I had changed, and he had made his own marks in the text, which he didn’t want me to see. There was one boastful moment when he put on his Edwardian-style hat, which was phosphorescent in the dark. I became more and more bored and irritated with the whole business. I told Wood how badly Richardson’s part as ‘the detective’ was translated. He disagreed and I realized that my adaptation would soon, by agreement between himself and Richardson, be abandoned, so I told him that in two days I would leave for the South of France. There were no protests. I repeated, ‘In two days—and I shall be happily lunching at the Colombe d’Or in St-Paul-de-Vence.’
I had somehow against my will been persuaded to allow my suppressed novels,
The Name of Action
and
Rumour at Nightfall
, to be published. I had insisted on writing introductions to show my reasons for suppressing them and to demonstrate how bad they were. All the same, I was very worried and I imaginedthe fun the critics would have with them. I thought of forbidding any paperback edition, but apparently it was too late for that.
On May 5, 1973, I had an awful experience which I am thankful never occurred in the Common World. I had sent a love scene in a new novel to my secretary to make a draft, but her draft was full
An idea for a novel also came to me. The scene was a rather large, ruined old house, and the story would pass from room to room, always avoiding the attic,until the reader began to wonder what there was in the attic. Only in the last chapter would we see inside. The attic would be littered with scraps of old newspapers, and in putting these together the reader would finally discover what the novel was about.
The opening sentences of the story were all that made their way across into the Common World.
IN THE ATTIC
I doubt if the furnished flat which I had chosen to buy would have pleased anyone but myself. But as soon as the lift reached the top floor and I saw the cracks in the door, it was as though the flat held out a hand to me in welcome; it seemed to say, in a voice that creaked like itself, ‘How good it is to see you here again.’
My few friends never understood my new friendship. All they saw was the decrepitude of my dwelling: hinges gone, cracks in the ceiling, a basin that leaked, a radiator that gave no heat. The state of the kitchen didn’t trouble me, for most of the food I had enjoyed when I was young could now be bought in tins. I remember still the first night I spent there, and the dream I had. The dream, like all dreams, had many gaps, passages which memory has failed to retain. I sometimes wonder whether the memory is often a merciful censor, so that even a nightmare has been trimmed of the worst terror by the time we open our eyes.
As in the Common World, writing in the World of My Own has an almost nightmare side. On May 3, 1983, I started revising a typescript of my book
Getting to Know the General
. I found it impossibly bad. There were long, rambling sentences that led nowhere.
The next night I was working on my novel
Monsignor Quixote
and I realized that a whole long stretch of it was boring. I decided to amputate this whole section, but that would entail completely altering the end with the monsignor’s death, and what other end could the book have?
In June 1965 I was rehearsing a play which I had adapted from a rather bad translation. My experience as actor-director was very similar to what I had experienced in 1964 in the World which was not My Own, when I was working on
Carving a Statue
. Peter Wood, who had directed that play, was now again directing, and Ralph Richardson was again playingthe principal part with his usual flamboyant, false
bonhomie
and determination to get his own way. He continually wanted to revert to the old literal translation, which I had changed, and he had made his own marks in the text, which he didn’t want me to see. There was one boastful moment when he put on his Edwardian-style hat, which was phosphorescent in the dark. I became more and more bored and irritated with the whole business. I told Wood how badly Richardson’s part as ‘the detective’ was translated. He disagreed and I realized that my adaptation would soon, by agreement between himself and Richardson, be abandoned, so I told him that in two days I would leave for the South of France. There were no protests. I repeated, ‘In two days—and I shall be happily lunching at the Colombe d’Or in St-Paul-de-Vence.’
I had somehow against my will been persuaded to allow my suppressed novels,
The Name of Action
and
Rumour at Nightfall
, to be published. I had insisted on writing introductions to show my reasons for suppressing them and to demonstrate how bad they were. All the same, I was very worried and I imaginedthe fun the critics would have with them. I thought of forbidding any paperback edition, but apparently it was too late for that.
On May 5, 1973, I had an awful experience which I am thankful never occurred in the Common World. I had sent a love scene in a new novel to my secretary to make a draft, but her draft was full
Similar Books
