by P. D. James
When the party ended I got the family together—Lyn and Clare, Peter and Jane—and we were driven to the Savoy for a very late dinner. I had booked in the River Restaurant, hoping for a quiet meal and a river view, but there was a somewhat noisy small orchestra. Jane, knowing how this would affect me, beckoned to the head waiter and asked if we could go to another part of the hotel. They disappeared together and returned five minutes later to say that Jane had approved a table for five in the Grill Room. There we ate in comfort a traditional but uninspiring meal, and then dropped Clare and Lyn by taxi at Oxford Circus and came home here so that Jane and Peter could pick up their car and drive back to Oxford. By then all of us were tired, myself particularly, too tired to write this before bed. But it was a good day, for which I am very grateful.
Thinking of reviews has encouraged me mentally to draw up a list of somewhat presumptuous advice for reviewers, among whom I list myself.
Always read the whole of the book before you write your review.
Don’t undertake to review a book if it is written in a genre you particularly dislike.
Review the book the author has written, not the one you think he/she should have written.
If you have prejudices—and you’re entitled to them—face them frankly and, if appropriate, acknowledge them.
Be scathingly witty if you must and can, but never be deliberately cruel, except to those writers who themselves deal in cruelty, and therefore presumably expect it.
If you absolutely hate the book and have nothing either interesting or positive to say, why review it? Any review gives a book much-wanted publicity and it is a pity to waste space on a book which is meretricious or dishonest when you could be saying something of value about one worth reading. An exception to this rule is an eagerly awaited major work by a well-known writer when the verdict of leading critics is expected.
If you are given a book to review by a close friend and you strongly dislike it, don’t review it. We none of us like hurting our friends and the temptation to be over-kind is too strong.
Resist the temptation to use a review to pay back old scores or to vent your dislike of the author’s sex, class, politics, religion or lifestyle. Try to believe that it is possible for people of whom you disapprove to write a good book.
TUESDAY, 7TH OCTOBER
Publicity began in earnest today. Andy arrived to take me to Hatchard’s, calling in at Faber to pick up Nicola Winter from Publicity. There I spent an hour signing with a nonstop line, many of them Americans. It is always a pleasure to meet readers and mine are so generous and grateful that it makes me feel humble. Then upstairs to sign books which had been ordered, many of them with specific dedications. These can occasionally be a problem, some readers requesting protestations of passionate devotion while others want a message to Mum, Dad or a husband which should, I feel, more appropriately be written by the purchaser than by me.
Roger Katz and his team helped. He must be one of the most enthusiastic booksellers in London and one of the best read. We worked away, meanwhile discussing the Booker list, the general view being that it was inexplicable. I paused briefly for some excellent sandwiches and a bottle of red wine over which Roger had taken considerable trouble. Altogether I signed over 700 books.
Then on to Lincoln’s Inn, where the BBC filmed me for a small interlude to be inserted in The Late Show. I had two passages to read and a short interview, then some outdoor shots in the cloisters.
I arrived home in time to see Joyce and talk over yesterday’s party, always a pleasure, and then watched the news before an early bed. I went to one of my bookcases to find a novel for my bedtime reading, something familiar but not too familiar, nothing new or too exciting since I need tonight to promote sleep, not discourage it. Inevitably I found myself still taking down books half an hour later.
I have always wanted to have a library, a room in which I can shelve all my books, and there is really no reason why this shouldn’t have been possible. It just happens that the houses I have owned over the years have never seemed suitable and today, as always, I have books in every room, arranged in no particular order. Recently I have at least made an effort to sort them into categories so that I know where to look for fiction, for poetry or for biography, but it is a slow business because the crowded shelves disgorge an extraordinary variety of books acquired over sixty years, some of which I had forgotten I owned.
When, I wondered, did I acquire this copy of Michael Arlen’s The Green Hat? It was apparently a bestseller in its day but now, opening it, I find it impossible to continue after even one page. Then there are the two novels by Ernest Raymond, also bestsellers between the wars. My copy of Tell England is probably the one I first read as a fourteen-year-old, ending in floods of tears after the final chapter, which makes it plain that the young soldier-narrator has died with his two friends in the First World War. This book was lent to all my friends who shared my passionate interest in this boys’ story of public school life which could have had no possible relevance to our own school experience. With increasing years and sophistication I probably wondered how the idealistic schoolmaster, Radley, escaped the suspicions of the police; nowadays he would certainly be invited to a session with the local social worker. But the book was published in a more innocent age and I suppose he was an example of the dedicated bachelor schoolmaster whose devotion to boys was emotional rather than physical.
The other Ernest Raymond novel, shelved next to it, We the Accused, had a more lasting influence on me. It dealt with a murder case obviously based on the Crippen/Ethel le Neve tragedy and was the first book I read which described the reality of a judicial hanging. After reading it I became a lifelong opponent of capital punishment.
Another volume, which literally fell at my feet since it had been pushed behind the Ernest Raymonds, was a chubby red-covered book, which proclaims itself on the frontispiece as “An Authentic History of Maria Marten, or the Red Barn” and which, although it carries no date, must have been published soon after the execution of William Corder for the murder of his pregnant fiancée in the Red Barn in Polstead, Suffolk. I recall that it was given to me by a fellow traveller on the train from Ipswich to Liverpool Street and feel some guilt that I can’t now remember his name. The murder is remarkable because Mrs. Ann Marten, stepmother of Maria, had frequent dreams that Maria had been murdered and her body buried in the Red Barn. For a time her husband paid no attention, but in the end he took a spade and went with a friend called Bowtell to begin his search. After removing a foot-and-a-half of soil they discovered Maria’s body.
After Corder left Polstead, confident that his secret was safe, he went to London and advertised for a wife. The interest in the little red book is that it contains both his advertisement and the many letters he received from women obviously desperate to escape their lives of deprivation, demeaning dependence or hopeless poverty. Some of the women are obviously well educated, but in 1827 would have had no profession open to them except that of governess. The advertisement which seduced them into replying appeared in the Morning Herald on 13th November and was as follows:
MATRIMONY—A Private Gentleman, aged 24, entirely independent, whose disposition is not to be exceeded, has lately lost the chief of his family by the hand of Providence, which has occasioned discord among the remainder, under circumstances most disagreeable to relate. To any female of respectability who would study for domestic comfort, and willing to confide her future happiness in one every way qualified to render the marriage state desirable, as the advertiser is in affluence, the lady must have the power of some property, which may remain in her own possession. Many very happy marriages have taken place through means similar to this now resorted to, and it is hoped no one will answer this through impertinent curiosity, but should this meet the eye of any agreeable lady who feels desirous of meeting with a sociable, tender, kind, and sympathizing companion, they will find this advertisement worthy of notice. Honour and secrecy may be relied on. As some little securi
ty against idle applications, it is requested that letters may be addressed (post-paid) to A.Z., care of Mr. Foster, stationer, No. 68, Leadenhall Street, which will meet with the most respectful attention.
What is extraordinary is that William Corder did indeed find a suitable and affectionate wife by this means. They married and set up a private school and when eventually, after the discovery of Maria Marten’s body, he was apprehended, she remained a support to her husband to the day of his execution.
WEDNESDAY, 8TH OCTOBER
John Mortimer gave a luncheon today at the Royal Society of Literature to say goodbye as our Chairman. There were about twenty people present, most of whom I knew, and some of them friends I hadn’t seen for too long. I sat between John and A. N. Wilson—a guarantee of good conversation spiced with gossip.
John is leaving the Society because he needs to devote his time and energy to the Royal Court Theatre, which has received a Lottery grant. Like many Lottery grants, this alleviates some problems but produces others. There is little point in giving a capital grant of millions if a theatre can’t meet its running costs, or of expecting it to contribute an equal sum when it’s already overdrawn. John is to be succeeded as Chairman by Michael Holroyd, so we’ll be in good and experienced hands. John has done well by the Society. When he arrived we were one of those long-established and peculiarly English organizations which people respect and regard as important but know virtually nothing about. There are considerable advantages in being an organization which manages to be highly respected without having to do anything in particular, but John thought that we should be more active in promoting literature, and now indeed we are. This has been achieved without any loss of the spirit and ethos of the Society, a tribute to John’s influence and wisdom.
At 5:45 Andy called to take me to the bookshop Books Etc. in Charing Cross Road, where I was to give a short talk, answer questions and then sign copies of the novel. There was a full house and the questions following the talk were lively, continuous and intelligent. These mixtures of talk and signing at bookshops are usually referred to as “events,” which puts me in mind of horse trials although, thankfully, they don’t in my case last for three days, and the only high jumps come in question time.
One of the questions I was asked is how I arrive at the title of a novel. I find the question of titles intriguing. I suppose the romantically minded see the process of choosing a title as the equivalent of naming a child. The title remains while the creation is in being and evokes different reactions from those who hear or read it. What one hopes to achieve is a title which is memorable, euphonious, original and appropriate to the work. Many English novels have what I think of as utilitarian titles—short, highly relevant but hardly imaginative, often the name of the chief character: David Copperfield, Jane Eyre, Tristram Shandy, Daniel Deronda. Then there are the place names, often used when the setting is so fundamental to the story that it assumes the importance of a character: Mansfield Park, Wuthering Heights, Howard’s End. The utilitarian title may also describe the central theme of the work: Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility. Titles I find particularly memorable are: All Passion Spent by Vita Sackville-West, A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh, and Appointment in Samarra by John O’Hara. Both the latter would make wonderful titles for crime novels and I wish I’d thought of them first.
O’Hara’s title for his novel set in America during the Depression is brilliant but would, of course, be meaningless if he hadn’t prefaced it with the short fable about Death encountering a servant in the market place. The servant returns to his master, terrified because Death has met him and made a threatening gesture towards him. He must escape immediately and hide himself in Samarra. Later that day his master goes to the market and, encountering Death, asks why he made a threatening gesture, to which Death replies: “It was not a threatening gesture, merely one of surprise. I did not expect to see your servant in the market as I have an appointment with him this evening in Samarra.”
My own titles come to me either very early, usually before I begin writing, or are difficult to find. I find it unsettling to have to work with a provisional title, almost as unsettling as changing the name of a character, and it is always a relief to have the title settled before I begin writing. I had no trouble, for example, with Death of an Expert Witness or An Unsuitable Job for a Woman, or with titles taken from the Book of Common Prayer or the Bible, which always provide an intriguing resonance: Original Sin, Devices and Desires. Two, however, caused me particular trouble.
My novel Innocent Blood, which deals with an adopted eighteen-year-old discovering her true parents, was originally called The Blood Tie. The book had reached the stage of page proofs when Faber discovered that the title had been used very recently. There is, of course, no copyright in titles, but no novelist wants to duplicate a recent title, or one already associated in readers’ minds with an existing book. It proved extremely difficult to find an alternative. The Blood Relation, an uninspiring choice, had also been used recently. The book was ready to be printed and still no satisfactory title had been found despite frequent searches through The Oxford Book of Quotations—always a useful source when in trouble. Remembering how a Roman Catholic friend of mine prays to St. Anthony for the recovery of things lost, it occurred to me that the saint might be prepared to help a Protestant find something which, although not lost in the strict sense, had certainly eluded discovery. So I said the appropriate words that night in bed, and awoke next morning with the title Innocent Blood in my mind, and on my lips. It was an infinitely better choice than the one originally proposed and I immediately telephoned Faber in London and Scribner’s in New York with the happy news. My friend, apparently unsurprised at my success, merely enquired what the saint had “charged”—or rather, what I had subsequently paid. I made a mental note to fulfil my dues when next passing a Roman Catholic church.
The other title which caused problems was A Taste for Death. This was taken from four lines of verse which I had read, I think in a Spectator article, some years previously:
Some can gaze and not be sick,
But I could never learn the trick.
There’s this to say for blood and breath
They give a man a taste for death.
At the time I scribbled down the four lines, telling myself that “A Taste for Death” would be an admirable title for my next novel and would, indeed, probably prove suitable no matter what the plot. When the novel was finished, I tried to find the source of the verse, expecting little difficulty. In fact the lines were totally elusive. My editor and I, helped by Faber staff, culled Auden, Kipling and any other poet who seemed likely to be the author. Again the weeks passed and the novel was due to be printed. It seemed to me that the title was meaningless without the verse, but it could hardly be printed from memory and without acknowledgement. At the last minute the source was discovered simultaneously by an elderly lady living in the Cathedral Close at Norwich and a young woman working on the book pages of the New York Times. The lines are by A. E. Housman, published among his later work, untitled and not part of a longer poem. So perhaps it isn’t surprising that the quotation eluded us for so long.
FRIDAY, 10TH OCTOBER
To Cheltenham by car with Nicola to give a talk at the Cheltenham Literary Festival. All the publicists with whom I have worked both here, in America and in Australia have been women and I don’t find this surprising. The job requires a combination of qualities which I think are more often found in women than men: an eye for detail, particularly time (missing a train can upset the whole schedule), an ability both to get on with a wide variety of people while protecting the writer from over-enthusiastic demands, and to be supportive, encouraging, soothing or bracing in response to the individual author’s personality and needs. Writers are not the easiest of people, especially soon after publication day, always a time of trauma. This morning both of us set out in good heart.
It has been a glorious day with great snub-nosed clouds like ethe
real dirigibles against a sky of astonishing blue. The feel of the air was spring, the colours the beginning of a late autumn. I like Cheltenham and the city looked its best in the sunlight, the long red banners advertising the Festival giving it the air of an elderly respectable dowager a little surprised at her unaccustomed gaiety. The Festival is one of the most successful and best organized of the English literary events and attracts large and knowledgeable audiences. There were 350 for my talk. I enjoyed myself and so, I think, did they.
It is difficult to assess how a talk will go, but much seems to depend on whether I am tired, on the ambience and on the initial response of the audience. I find it surprising that writers today are expected to be public performers. Addressing an audience of 350 for forty to forty-five minutes and then taking questions is a public performance and writers, often the most solitary of people, are seldom actors. I wonder how Virginia Woolf would have coped with today’s demand that successful writers be seen and heard.
I returned to find a call on the answerphone from granddaughter Beatrice. She is due here with her bridge partner, Rachel, and Rachel’s boyfriend to play bridge in the English squad. Bea said that there were two more friends, whom she ironically described as clean-living boys, who had no bed for the night, so she has told them that they could turn up with their sleeping bags and sleep at my house. Last year there was only one clean-living lad. Next year, no doubt, there will be three or four clean-living boys trooping in with their sleeping bags. However, there is plenty of room and I like civilized, lively and intelligent young people, although I find this passion for bridge incomprehensible in anyone under forty.
This evening there was a call from Paul Bogaards of Alfred A. Knopf about my prospective American tour in January. I had queried whether I could really manage it. I am due to begin at Boston, then on to New York, Washington, Chicago, Dayton, Pittsburgh, Dallas, Houston, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and then down to Miami, in just over a fortnight. Paul went through the itinerary with me and pointed out that, with one exception, the flights were not as long as he had expected. He thought it was manageable and I knew that it was important, so I gave in as I usually do. Time will show whether this was wise. But I can be sure of two things: the tour will be organized with efficiency and carried out in comfort.
