passenger seat beside him. He pulled into the street and proceeded to drive through the city with a quiet attention and thoroughness I came to view as characteristic.
“What are you working on at the moment?” he asked, glancing my way.
I said that I was stalled on the latest novel and he smiled, nodding. “I know the feeling well,” he sympathised.
He puffed his pipe, and soon a pungent fug filled the car. He opened the quarter-light, murmuring apologies, and I breathed freely again.
Vaughan published his first novel in 1925, at the age of forty. It was much publicised at the time as being in the tradition of H.G. Wells - a Scientific Romance set thousands of years into the future of planet Earth. It was an odd choice of subject matter for a beginning novelist to pursue, and a practitioner with less literary skill and intelligence might have failed miserably. The book was an instant success, however, earning the plaudits of the crusty literary establishment for its undoubted stylistic merit and the breadth of its imaginative daring. He proceeded to write one book a year for the next ten years, all of them eschewing the more mundane subject matter of contemporary society and its manners and focusing instead on matters bizarre and frankly extraordinary. My favourite of his books, Solar Equatorial , posited a time in the distant future when the descendants of humankind possessed the technological wherewithal to construct great artificial habitats girdling the circumference of our fiery primary. His other books considered the possibility of life on other planets, of great civilisations that might have existed in our distant history. It was all heady stuff, and perhaps easily dismissed but for the literary quality he brought to bear on his subject matter, the depth of his characterisation, and the merit of his prose.
I ventured to ask what he was writing now, and he told me that he had just finished, and submitted to his editor, his latest novel.
For the next thirty minutes, as we drove though the mean environs of outer London, the steady drizzle turning to snow as we went, he told me about the book.
He detailed the plot, then described the characters, ideas and themes. He spoke with quiet conviction, and held me spellbound.
“You see, Jonathon, I’m not much interested in the here and now. I cannot merely limit myself to the contemporary. The novelist owes his reader more than the mere documenting of the world already known and written about by a thousand other writers. I try to offer alternative visions, views that perhaps no-one has quite broached in the same way before. But don’t get me wrong, I’m interested in human beings, in the constancy of human motivation and reaction - you’ll find these in my novels, as well.”
“The problem that most of us have,” I ventured, “is finding suitable subject matter, a subject that’s both interesting to the author and engaging to the reader. It’s all I can do to write about contemporary society. I’ve no idea how you come up with some of your ideas.”
He smiled. “I stare at the ceiling, empty my mind, and dream.”
Like this we whiled away the time as we left London in our wake and motored along the rolling roads of Berkshire.
For miles and miles in every direction, snow bequeathed the land the appearance of uniformity and innocence; not a soul was to be seen, and ours was the only automobile upon the road. I truly felt as though I were embarking upon some fantastical adventure... and my mood of questing levity was broken only by thoughts of Carla and my father.
Inevitably, perhaps, the conversation found its way on to the subject of Jasper Carnegie.
“Have you been to the Grange before?” Vaughan asked.
“Never. This will be the first time. I usually meet Carnegie at the office in London.”
“You’ve known him long?”
“He was in the year above me at Cambridge,” I said. “So, what, over fifteen years?” I smiled. “He was editing a
“What are you working on at the moment?” he asked, glancing my way.
I said that I was stalled on the latest novel and he smiled, nodding. “I know the feeling well,” he sympathised.
He puffed his pipe, and soon a pungent fug filled the car. He opened the quarter-light, murmuring apologies, and I breathed freely again.
Vaughan published his first novel in 1925, at the age of forty. It was much publicised at the time as being in the tradition of H.G. Wells - a Scientific Romance set thousands of years into the future of planet Earth. It was an odd choice of subject matter for a beginning novelist to pursue, and a practitioner with less literary skill and intelligence might have failed miserably. The book was an instant success, however, earning the plaudits of the crusty literary establishment for its undoubted stylistic merit and the breadth of its imaginative daring. He proceeded to write one book a year for the next ten years, all of them eschewing the more mundane subject matter of contemporary society and its manners and focusing instead on matters bizarre and frankly extraordinary. My favourite of his books, Solar Equatorial , posited a time in the distant future when the descendants of humankind possessed the technological wherewithal to construct great artificial habitats girdling the circumference of our fiery primary. His other books considered the possibility of life on other planets, of great civilisations that might have existed in our distant history. It was all heady stuff, and perhaps easily dismissed but for the literary quality he brought to bear on his subject matter, the depth of his characterisation, and the merit of his prose.
I ventured to ask what he was writing now, and he told me that he had just finished, and submitted to his editor, his latest novel.
For the next thirty minutes, as we drove though the mean environs of outer London, the steady drizzle turning to snow as we went, he told me about the book.
He detailed the plot, then described the characters, ideas and themes. He spoke with quiet conviction, and held me spellbound.
“You see, Jonathon, I’m not much interested in the here and now. I cannot merely limit myself to the contemporary. The novelist owes his reader more than the mere documenting of the world already known and written about by a thousand other writers. I try to offer alternative visions, views that perhaps no-one has quite broached in the same way before. But don’t get me wrong, I’m interested in human beings, in the constancy of human motivation and reaction - you’ll find these in my novels, as well.”
“The problem that most of us have,” I ventured, “is finding suitable subject matter, a subject that’s both interesting to the author and engaging to the reader. It’s all I can do to write about contemporary society. I’ve no idea how you come up with some of your ideas.”
He smiled. “I stare at the ceiling, empty my mind, and dream.”
Like this we whiled away the time as we left London in our wake and motored along the rolling roads of Berkshire.
For miles and miles in every direction, snow bequeathed the land the appearance of uniformity and innocence; not a soul was to be seen, and ours was the only automobile upon the road. I truly felt as though I were embarking upon some fantastical adventure... and my mood of questing levity was broken only by thoughts of Carla and my father.
Inevitably, perhaps, the conversation found its way on to the subject of Jasper Carnegie.
“Have you been to the Grange before?” Vaughan asked.
“Never. This will be the first time. I usually meet Carnegie at the office in London.”
“You’ve known him long?”
“He was in the year above me at Cambridge,” I said. “So, what, over fifteen years?” I smiled. “He was editing a
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