A chip of literary history
J. D. Scott
In 1954,1 was literary editor of the Spectator. The circulation was not behaving as it should, and one day in the autumn, the editor, Walter Taplin, gave the staff a peptalk. What could we do to liven things up, get ourselves talked about, be more influential, more sensational, and so more circulation-building, more money-making? Sensational journalism: not an easy product for a literary editor, whose main job is to arrange for reviews; you can review sensational books in a sensational way, but what can you do if people are not producing sensational books ?
Well, you can look again to see whether those already in your hands are not capable of generating a deeper or more widespread interest. In our issue of 27 August of that year, Anthony Hartley had written the principal book review, a full-length article called 'Poets of the Fifties.' He was well qualified to do so; a poet himself, he was then a member of the Spectator staff, and was in effect (among other demanding roles) poetry editor. Over a period of time he had been giving prominence to the work of young poets whom he now, in the August article, presented as having similarities. What struck one first, he wrote, was 'a similarity of tone . . . [that] might roughly be described as "dissenting" and non-conformist, cool, scientific and analytical.' Among the poets he named, whose names 'will be familiar to readers of the Spectator,' were Thom Gunn, George MacBeth, Donald Davie and Jonathan Price, and it was the recent collections of those four poets that were the occasion for the article. But it ranged beyond them; names mentioned included John Wain, Kingsley Amis, Philip Larkin and Philip Oakes.
'Complication of thought,' Hartley wrote, 'austerity of tone, colloquialism and avoidance of rhetoric—these provide some common ground and common dangers.' He observed differences, he discriminated, but he deprecated the idea that it would be appropriate 'to pick winners in a race that has still far to go.' And he concluded: `. what is certain is that, for better or for worse, we are now in the presence of the only considerable movement in English poetry since the 'thirties.' An important article, 'Poets of the Fifties' succeeded in its aim: `to arouse attention—to transmit enthusiasm' in those to whom it was addressed, that is, people who were seriously interested in contemporary poets. But that is a small circle.
Could it be enlarged by 'sensational journalism'? And, at that, by a first attempt in this field by a writer who was hardly a journalist at all? Now, instead of the mild shadowless light of critical appraisal which I had tried from time to time to switch on, I had an idea for a box of fireworks—fireworks that would startle with a sudden coruscation, cause a gasp, illuminate a wide scene momentarily and perhaps deceptively, and of course die at once and be forgotten. That is the fate of fireworks. The idea that had occurred to me was to take the movement in poetry and see how far it extended beyond poetry, and specifically into the novel, and to consider the extent to which it represented some historic change in society. Two of the poets named in 'Poets of the Fifties' had then recently published first novels; Kingsley Amis'sLuelcyJim and John Wain's Hurry on Down. Not very much, but used it as the basis for my attempt.
And so there appeared, on 1 October, 1954, an article entitled 'In the Movement.' It was dignified as a Literary Leading Article, and was therefore anonymous. It was designed to grab the attention of any casual reader who, on his way from the political pages ('The End of Bevanism ?') to the financial column ('Sterling Convertibility Deferred') might happen on it. It was written in a tone brisk, challenging and dismissive. The 'thirties: 'Gone, all gone, utterly gone and vanished; its revolutionary young leaders scattered and famous, acclaimed by Public Orators and applauded at princely Venetian first nights . . .' The 'forties and 'fifties: their 'lush loose fashionable writing' was out; as was their despair. Other things that were out were little magazines and experimental writing. Almost everything, in fact, was out.
There was rather a feeling in the air in 1954, of things being out, and other things in. Earlier in the year! myself had reviewed a book called Children of the New Estate by Gladys Kendon, and had written that the author 'represents an England that we all know—England of the rectories and public schools, but also of the Manchester counting house and the dissenting chapel . .' By contrast, the children she taught, and about whom she wrote—Nocal, soft, vaguely excitable, mildly sensual, nice, co-operative,' as I described them—were 'a new kind of English people.' Looking back, what I take it was happening was that the change in Britain's world role, that had actually taken place by 1945, was registering internally some ten years later. It was with this sense of historical gears changing that I wrote 'In the Movement.'
I think there were, in the article itself, passages that were perceptive and cogent, although on the whole the cogency outran the perception. But there was no doubt of its being sensational. It struck a nerve in the body of people interested in literature, and this nerve vibrated. Some of the vibrations were odd. Evelyn Waugh, for instance, wrote a letter which in its cool, generous, and temperate tone, and its concern for the welfare of young writers, revealed a side of
his character which is unlike the author of the Diaries. Young writers deserved indi
vidual attention, he wrote; it wasn't helpful to treat them as a group; some good writers ofthe 'thirties had suffered from being made to appear as a gang. To this another letter replied that the main object of such an article was surely to do a service to the readers, by 'drawing attention to things which they would otherwise miss.' There were lengthy, discerning letters from Denis
Donoghue, G. S. Fraser, and Malcolm Bradbury; in fact a distinguished symposium, although rather reproving than otherwise.
There were many letters beside those we published. They came from all over Britain, then from America, from France, from Italy. Articles too: Reflections sur le Mauvement, Ii Movimento Inglese. They continued for months. A number of the letters were inquiring, pained, even abusive; why had I so dismally failed to discern thistalent, or that ? As for the articles, I don't recall that the standard was very high, and some were silly with the special, woolly silliness of international cultural misapprehension. yet in the letters there was, repeatedly, a note of pain and, I think one would have to say'. of loneliness, as from people who had been left watching the departure of a sailing theY had missed. And the articles, perhaps rather owlish, were yet genuinely trying to understand; they were serious. On the whole, I formed the view that while an individual piece of sensational journalism might be amazingly successful, as a genre it was 0.0t satisfying, and I never attempted it again: Living for many years abroad (immersed, in journalism of the most unsensational nature conceivable) I had myself rather forgotten my own brief scurry into the sensational. As a movement, the MoveMent hardly stayed the course, certainly not the course of a quarter of a century. Could it be expected to? Its origins really called rather for Anthony Hartley's tentative delineation. than for a Madison Avenue promotion. Yet I cannot feel that it was seriously wrong promote the work of young poets, eve,11,, factitiously. And I'm encouraged by the od'o circumstance that the promotion seems t, have edged its way into history. Recently I received a letter from someone engaged on 3 PhD thesis on British poetry since 1945. 0: understood I was the author of In let Movement'; would I be kind enough to him have my recollections of the circuro stances in which it had been written? Sw after almost twenty-five years, I am dra to suspect that that frivolous little piece b.% in some totally unexpected, science-fictigu,„ manner, turned into a chip of monumetnbetsFc; aere perennius; and one should accept
I suppose, with decorum, as they haPPen fall.
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