AND ANOTHER THING
Song before sunrise from an irritating but unrepentant idiosyncratic
PAUL JOHNSON
We are approaching the time of year when I get up really early. I like to follow the sun, going to bed when it grows dark, rising at the first glimmer of light, rather as the House of Commons did in mediaeval times, when it sat from dawn to dusk (a candlelit session was rare before the third decade of the 17th century). There are two main reasons for my habit. First, I have learned from experience that in England, especially in the south, early mornings pro- duce the best weather and the finest light, and the longer you stay in bed the more You miss. When I am in my London garden at dawn, and still more at sunrise, I see superb skies and splendid light effects on buildings and trees. And the birdsong is often a touch Mozartian.
My second reason is simply that my mind works best in the morning hours. I can duti- fully get through work in the afternoon and I am sometimes obliged to write articles at short notice in the early evening or even later — and do so. But for the most exact- ing work, such as the key passages of books which one wishes to reread without embar- rassment 30 years later, I employ the hours from six to two. There is no particular merit, either moral or intellectual, in being an early person. Elizabeth I, the sovereign I most admire, always rose late. 'I am not a morning woman,' she said firmly. She often worked for long stretches after the rest of the court had gone to bed, sitting up with her papers, or closeted with her intimate advisers, into the small hours.
Dr Johnson tried throughout his life to follow an early-rising routine. He said he always recommended it to young men who wished to get on, 'and with the greatest earnestness and sincerity'. In this respect he was following Erasmus, who urged his Pupils not to attempt difficult work at night out to get up early the next day. Unlike Erasmus, however, Dr Johnson could not follow his own advice. He regarded habitu- al sloth as his most conspicuous failing. Try as he might, he could not, except under compulsion, get up before noon or even two in the afternoon. On the other hand, he dreaded going to bed and would sit up with the most tedious people rather than do so. I have no doubt his mind worked better at night and it is a pity he did not
MIN*.
y accept the fact, instead of lacerating himself with guilt. Many fine intellects are nocturnal. That Was certainly true of Byron, whose compo- sitional routines are fully recorded in his letters. Kipling was a nightbird too, I think, though he worked brilliantly at all hours. Again, if I phone Tom Stoppard at noon I am liable to wake him up. I know that some of his best writing is done in the evening or even after midnight. I have a hunch that a majority of creative female minds function more coherently at night, and I would be willing to bet that most really good novels written by women have been composed chiefly during the hours of darkness. I have no direct evidence, but I suspect that Emma and Persuasion (not the early nov- els) were largely products of the night. None of this proves anything. In half a cen- tury of mixing with writers I have learned that all have work patterns peculiar to themselves, dictated by body clocks, super- stition, professional deformations, sex and moral weaknesses, tiresome spouses or lovers, shortage of cash and the general bruises of life.
The truth is, creative work can take place at any time and in the most peculiar situa- tions. Writers themselves are never sur- prised by how and when their colleagues operate. They know their own weird habits too well for that. The image of Anthony Trollope, sitting scribbling away with his pocket watch in front of him and clocking up the hours and words like a taxi, fills most writers with dread, not untouched by envy. Not one in a thousand can do it like that. Many need to be dragged to their desks, or subjected to strict regimes of rewards and punishments. When the late George Gale and I were writing a joint book, I had to get him down to my house and more or less lock him in before he dis- gorged his half. At the other extreme, some writers will go on and on and on, pouring out words and erasing them — the comput- er is a deadly temptation for this type regardless of mealtimes or sleep, threaten- ing marriages and ending love affairs in the process. I know of women columnists who infuriate their husbands by nocturnal scrib- blings or tappings, accompanied as they usually are by coffee-brewing and tea-mak- ing, match-striking, crackling of sweet- and choc-papers, . nibbling, squeaks of anguish and witchlike cursings.
My wife Marigold has to put up with my early habits, which are, I admit, irritating. If we are not obliged to go out, I retire at nine and read myself to sleep, getting up at five or even earlier. My movements are mouse-like — mine is what I call a low- intensity arousal — but finding my watch, glasses and keys and stumbling about in the darkness for my dressing-gown and slippers sometimes produce minute sounds which may awaken the sleeping beauty. Once I am downstairs, however, and sever- al floors removed from the zone of silence, I can do what I please — 'sound, lights, action!' Oh, the blissful freedom of being awake before everyone else and at liberty to prowl the lower reaches of the house, passing in and out of rooms and along cor- ridors in complete autonomy. I feel like the hermits who live in solitary grandeur in the region of Mount Athos, devising their own devotional routines and known as idiosyncratics. I go into the library and inspect the fax machine to see what it has spewed forth in the night, On the hall mat I often find packages which have been deposited by one of the mysterious private postal services which now function secre- tively during the hours of darkness. Then I go to my study and write up my diary, or tap away at my sturdy old Olympia Com- pact, singing to myself if I am happy — as I usually am — or, if I am really down and in need of last-resort solutions, reading fan mail.
Recently, with an art exhibition coming up, I have been walking across the dewy grass in my bare feet and entering my stu- dio for a general peer around. This month I resumed painting in oils and the place now reeks comfortably of turpentine and linseed oil, strongly aromatic paints and the faintly military smell of canvas. I potter about, picking up brushes, drawing designs on sketchpads, then dabbing at unfinished work. My father would not have painted by artificial light in any circumstances, but I have no such inhibitions. Indeed, I some- times get down to serious work well before sunrise, and am totally absorbed for an hour or two. Suddenly I realise that it is broad daylight and become aware of the faint sounds of a stirring London, which can be heard even in our Bayswater eyrie. I bustle upstairs to brush my teeth and shave, and get up properly. Time for church, the papers, breakfast, letters, nor- malcy. I feel I have gained two hours at least, that I am up on the day. Yes: but what have I done with those two hours, now gone just as irrevocably as if I had been sound asleep? Well, to begin with, I have enjoyed them.
Previous page
