.jpg)
The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 12, Issue 4 (July 1, 1937)
Among The Books — A Literary Page or Two
Among The Books
A Literary Page or Two
Only a few years ago New Zealand literary critics freely used the word “urigrammatical” as descriptive of the prose of one of our own writers. To-day the same critics write of the same writer's “masterly prose.” Recently in a page review of a novel by C. J. Powys, whose books are accounted as having sufficient enduring quality to be quoted in the first edition catalogues of leading booksellers, Richard Church wrote as follows:—
“It is no wonder that such an over-simulated nervous literary picture should result in a prose style guilty of every possible fault. It is ungram-matical, swollen and incongruous, a distorting medium that multiplies the ineptitudes of a distorted fancy.” I hold no brief for Powys. I do not like his work. I offer my introductory observations and later quotation as a measure of consolation to those writers who may feel hurt over criticisms hurled at their heads over alleged grammatical errors or lack of style. Literary criticism is often a one man opinion. Old Bancroft has it that “the public is wiser than the wisest critic.” Look to your public therefore for judgment.
* * *
In the pages of a very old book I purchased the other day I found a few sheets of paper ornamented with that glorious flowing copperplate that our grandfathers and great grandfathers used to write. The context of the message, which is as follows, should be of value to book and print collectors, for it is headed “Process for Removing Spots from Books and Prints”:—
“After having gently warmed the paper stained with grease, wax oil, or any fat body whatever, take out as much as possible by means of blotting paper, having first scraped off with a blunt knife what was not sunk in and gently warm the stained part. Then dip a small brush in well rectified spirits of turpentine, heated almost to ebullition (for when cold it acts very weakly) and draw it gently over both sides of the paper, which must be carefully kept warm. This operation must be repeated as many times as the quantity of the fat body imbibed by the paper, or the thickness of the paper may render it necessary. When the grease is entirely removed, recourse may be had to the following method to restore the paper to its former whiteness, which is not completely restored by the first process. Dip another brush in alcohol, and draw it, in like manner, over the place which was stained, and particularly round the edges, to remove the border that would still present a stain. By employing these means with proper caution, the spot will totally disappear, and the paper assumes its original whiteness if the process has been employed upon a part written on with common ink, it will experience no alteration.”
The page also contained another interesting process of value to bibliophiles. This I will include on this page next issue.
* * *
I met a book collector the other day who is surely in the final stages of bibliomania. He was showing me a beautiful Noel Douglas replica of Keats' first volume of verse.
“Why, you have not even cut the pages!” I exclaimed as I seized a knife to examine the title page.
My friend rushed at me with a hoarse cry of anguish and snatched the paper knife from my hand.
“For heaven's sake,” he cried, “do not spoil the book.”
“But,” I replied, “you can't read the book with its pages uncut.”
“Man! don't you understand,” he said, “if you cut the pages the book loses some of its value as a collectors' item.”
.jpg)
Regarding him more in sorrow than in anger, I did not pursue the subject further.
* * *
At least a few New Zealand printers have displayed in their typography and format an artistic appreciation of the prose and poetry of our best writers. A recent example of sympathetic association between printer and poet is to be found in Johannes C. Andersen's “Tura And the Fairies,” and “The Overworlds and Tu.” These two lengthy poems, which are based on Maori legendry lore, are sung in music of stately measure. The printer, Harry Tombs, of Wellington, has been imbued as it were with the lordly language of the poet and has given the verse a truly artistic typographical setting.
* * *
We were talking about printers' errors. An old “Post” scribe told us of one in his paper a quarter of a century ago. A mighty gale struck Wellington and the big black heading over the vivid story ran:
Wild Dogs In The City.
Of course, the writer of the article was referring to days and not dogs.
* * *
Coming so close on the sensational disclosures in Robert Sherard's book on Oscar Wilde and his denunciation of Frank Harris, the following letter written to a Dunedin resident by G.B.S. re Harris's biography of Shaw, makes particularly interesting reading:
“The truth is that F.H. was very badly qualified to write a life of me. He did not want to do it…. but the publishers demanded a book on Shaw. He being at the end of his resources, had to comply; but, as he had read nothing of mine since he edited the Saturday Review in the ‘nineties, and never to the end of his life understood why such a fuss was made about me and was besides so ignorant of the circumstances of my life that he had to invent them with all the wildest unsuccess, he made such a hopeless mess of the job that publication was impossible until I took it in hand myself. He never read the page 40 result; for he died before I got to work on it. I cannot tell you how much of the work is mine and how much Harris's because I destroyed the evidence so completely, and I amused myself so often by imitating Frank's style and being more Harrisian than Harris, that I could not now tell with any exactness which was which.”
* * *
Reviews.
“Harvest of the Moor,” by Margaret Leigh (G. Bell & Sons Ltd., London; Whitcombe & Tombs, New Zealand agents) might have been written by a practical, less poetical, Mary Webb. There is a nice easy style about this book, telling of the triumphs and the tribulations of those who work the soil and tend the flocks with such faithful perseverance. The location is Cornwall, and the verbal pictures impress themselves on the mind as clearly as a series of perfect photographs. A most refreshing break from the cluttering swarm of sex and sensation novels.
* * *
“Dig,” by Frank Clune (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is the epic story of those two superlatively brave explorers, Burke and Wills, who, some seventy-seven years ago, crossed the great Australian continent from Melbourne to the Gulf of Carpentaria. What an appropriate title for such a story; the word “Dig” so frequently carved or scrawled on a tree or perhaps a rock and carrying in its three letters a message of hope or despair. For Frank Clune, however, it was a word of triumph, for he had to dig into many a memory or musty document to build up his grand but tragic story of Robert O'Hara Burke, the gallant Irishman, and William John Wills, the young Englishman, and their terrible journey of exploration. So great has been the demand for the book that the first edition was sold out before it was off the press.
* * *
“Old Amos,” by Arnold Edmondson (Arthur Barker, London; Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd., New Zealand agents) introduces us to a new humorist—a garrulous centenarian who tells us in his inimitable fashion tales of the Lake Country. The humour is in a way reminiscent of Pett Ridge and W. W. Jacobs. Good, wholesome books of humour are rare these days, and for that reason I feel sure that the creation of “Old Amos” will be as welcome as the flowers of the spring. The author is fortunate in having such an able illustrator as Thomas Henry. This well-known artist has combined almost perfectly with the author in his character delineations.
* * *
“Cheerful Rhymes,” by D. J. Donald (Harry H. Tombs Ltd., Wellington) is a collection of light verse some of which is distinctly clever. Humorous writers are rare in this country, and, as for a humorous poet, I did not imagine that one existed in our midst. This booklet proves otherwise. The author displays a nice subtle sense of humour.
* * *
“Grubstake Gold,” by J. B. Hendryx (Jarrold's, London; Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd., New Zealand agents) is a fast moving story of “The Trail of 98.” It is not just one of those average thrillers and it is not literary; it is just the book for the crowd who look for a thrill, a laugh and perhaps a cry. The hero is a newspaper man, who, being sacked because he wrote the truth, joins in the big gold rush. His companions are a likeable old “bruiser” and a dancing girl. They find adventure in plenty.
The Thirteenth Clue—(Continued from page 27 ).
“Notify the police stations!” cried one.
“Telegraph Mr. Semple!” advised another.
A Rotarian garage proprietor sighed.
“I wish I had the agency for those blinking Disapontiacs. They accelerate like hell.”
Up in the tea room a group bent over a prostrate form. It was Furnace Skurry, lying in a faint, his eyeglass still in position. Gillespie opened a bottle of pink mineral water, and, saying to himself that the stuff had never been put to so good a purpose, dashed some of it over Skurry's face. Skurry got up slowly with apologies.
“Sorry to make such an exhibition of myself, but O my God, that cliché!”
“What cliché?” asked Gillespie.
“The last infirmity of ignoble detective story minds,” replied Skurry. “Use of pepper. The oldest and commonest trick in the box of crime and frustration.”
The president of Rotary looked puzzled.
“What does he mean? What's a cleeshay?”
“C-l-i-c-h-é,” Gillespie spelt.
“O, you mean clitsh,” said the president.
Skurry fainted again.
(To be continued.)
“Shibli” Listens In.
In connection with the New Zealand Centennial a committee composed of our leading historians is now busy gathering material for a suitable commemoration in book form of past events.
Mr. Johannes C. Andersen proposes to publish a series of chastely printed books containing the verse of leading New Zealand poets.
Beau Shiel, advertising manager for the Commercial Broadcasting Station, has written a book on “Smithy.” It will be published shortly in London.
Miss Marie Ney, formerly of Wellington, was a guest of honour at the Swinburne Centenary Dinner of the P.E.N. in London on May 4th last. She read to those present some of Swinburne's more famous poems.