Long life
Publish and be embarrassed
Nigel Nicolson
There was a time, years ago, when I reviewed five books a week for a Manch- ester newspaper. I wanted the money, the books and a way of filling in time between visits to the division lobbies. I never heard from the editor, the readers or the authors, but very occasionally I would see myself quoted in an advertisement: —Amazing", Manchester Evening News'. Now I no longer review for English papers as none of them asks me. But I do sometimes write for American journals, the more remote the better. It's safer that way.
My father, who reviewed for the Observer for 16 years non-stop, told me that one should never write an abusive review because nobody wishes to be told what not to read. On the only occasion when he broke his own rule he was challenged to a duel by the author's son, Adrian Conan Doyle. Given the choice of weapons, he nominated an exchange of letters instead of an exchange of fire and the affair ended amicably. But his rule was mistaken. Abuse of books is always enjoyable and sometimes deserved. I would have been proud to begin a review like Julie Burchill's in last week's Spectator, 'Like her heroine, Madonna, Camille Paglia (the "g" is silent — the only thing about her that is) is a blue-collar Italian-American broad', but wouldn't have had the nerve to write like this about so furious a virago, and being uncertain what a broad, in this context, is, except that it's not nice. Besides, I might one day meet her. That's the trouble. It's too small a world.
While a review should ideally be an open letter to the author, asking why he chose to write this book at all, let alone like this, the last thing one wishes is to meet him subse- quently if the review was in any way unfavourable. I have suffered from such encounters both ways round. One morning I read a highly disagreeable review of r1131 own book by Malcolm Muggeridge, and came face to face with him that verY evening. He was evidently embarrassed, uncertain whether I had seen the review or not. I wasn't going to let him off the hook too quickly. I said that the book had had 3 mixed reception, looking sly, and only after ten minutes did I quote back to him one of his unkindest cuts, at which we could both laugh, uneasily. It's when one falls into conversation with an author about whorl one has written disagreeably, he having been told who you are but you not knowing him, that the encounter can be fraught with risks. I once feebly joked about a book, quoting some of my published witticisms about it, and asked my acquaintance if he had read it. 'Yes,' he replied, 'I wrote it.'
Dreadful as that encounter was, it came nowhere near another which John SparroW once described to me as a warning not to take chance acquaintances for granted. In the late 1930s he was travelling through central Europe with Maurice Bowra, who was already Warden of Wadham. 1110 took a night train from Warsaw to Berlin, having booked a sleeper, and to their dis- may discovered that one of the four berths in their compartment (the fourth being, empty) was occupied by a middle-ago, woman. They greeted her politely an made a few reassuring remarks in EngIlse which she appeared not to understand at all. Clearly a Polish widow of impeccable connections. The two men began to enter' tam n each other with such comments as 'She's painting her toe-nails green' (tota.11Y untrue) and 'She's fast asleep, with a smile, on her lips' (she wasn't), until they fel,, asleep themselves. In the morning the/ resumed their bantering. 'She's combang her hair with a golden comb,' said 130Awr! (she was doing nothing of the sort). So.n continued until the train drew into Berl Then she turned and said sweetly, in a pl?r Cambridge voice, 'Would you mind help,ing me down with my suitcase, Mr Sparrow?
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