The Waugh to end Waugh

Auberon Waugh

The Man Who Liked Women Marc Branklel (Eyre Methuen £2.50) The Barrier Robin Maugham (W. H. Allen £2.00)

Two very pleasant novels round off my stint as The Spectator's novel reviewer. Marc Brandel's first novel after a pause of nineteen years is about a relaxed, unambitious American engineer who adores women. He is not only a compulsive womaniser, but he actually likes them. As a reward, perhaps, Venus is reborn out of his skull. Although only one and a half inches at birth, she soon finds ways to delight and satisfy his senses. He takes her to California, where they assume she is a bat tery-operated novelty, and to London, where she is assumed to be some sort of chihuahua. All this time she is growing fast, and in the course of an Irish idyll, they learn to satisfy each other by more conventional means. Grown to normal height, she becomes a celebrity but is disgusted by modern society, its commerical values and false, competitive attitude to sexual love, so she and the engineer go to Paris in time for the student up rising of May 1968. An element of political and social didacticism begins to creep in here, but I suppose one must have some reason for writing a novel about Venus being born out of an American engineer's head, and it is never discordant or tastelessly intrusive,

even when Mr Brandel solemnly concludes — about the evenements in Paris — that "making love and making revolution seemed one and the same thing." Unfortunately, she continues to grow, so the engineer has to convey her, as a giantess, in the back of a truck to Mount Olympus where she rejoins the company of the Gods, shrinking as she runs. As a last present she leaves her engineer a shell which will make him irresistibly attractive to women. However, the engineer throws it away as a gesture of loyalty to his Goddess although this action seems to deny everything the book has preached up to that moment. Never mind. There are, those who will find the theme whimsical, and a few older readers may be disgusted by the sexual descriptions, but I can only say I found the mixture of Lilliput, Zuleika Dobson and Aquarian eroticism quite enchanting, and recommend the book with all my heart.

There is at least one spectacle more distressing than that of our homosexual fraternity purring and licking the cream off its whiskers,(aithough Will Waspe's vivid picture of the London theatre' being squashed under its great velvety behind will remain in my imagination for a long time). This is when the claws come out, the fur flies and the Mafia decides to execute one of its members.

I don't know what Lord Maugham's crime has been — perhaps it is something he wrote in his autobiography last year; perhaps his last homosexual novel was considered too overt by the gay community. Perhaps they are annoyed that he has returned to heterosexual adventures in his latest novel — presumably to catch the wider market. Whatever the reason, a glance at the reviews will show that the buggers have really got it in for him. This

seems to me unjust, as his latest novel is Ail; fully written, unpretentious and rathe' charming if one can overlook a certain gaucheness in the sexual scenes. Anne Wickson is the beautiful, level-head; ed, nineteen-year-old daughter of a tenon', farmer on a baronet's estate during the Ws` century. She is taken in marriage by the h,er,, onet's son and heir, Tom, colonel of an Indtt regiment and over fifty. Her wedding convinces her that she is not in love w'w; Tom, but she is much taken by the India ,n: and upset by the poverty, squalor, etc. T"`" discovery that Indians have many WW1. qualities would be more startling, of course' I, it had not already been made by E. M. Forge'' nearly fifty years ago, and if their cruel treat ment of the poor Nagas ever since dependence had not caused at least some (e)d us to have second thoughts. But 1 learLt something I never knew before — 441.4"-, Brahmins mustn't touch or be touched uY donkey, a pig or a dog or a child old enoug_,, to eat solid food; and mustn't read a pralte;‘, book while eating. This last seems a sensib,',' rule, as one nearly always spills food on 11;: Anne's beauty excites a local Mani but she falls for a low-caste graehe: They are discovered at it by a spy of l",0 Rajah, so the low-caste groom flees ' Ceylon, arranging for Anne to follosw. Meanwhile Sir John f3etjeman has been WrIHti ing a number of very pleasant sonnets Oct her affair with the groom which Anne lessly leaves around for her husband ant14,11,11sister to find. The end is ingeniously C`fui trived, and although the novel is certainly Di faultless, it is much less corny than one 01,4 u have supposed if one had read only the In: twenty pages. Lord Maugham uses three nr rators to tell the story which I always thi„n"„t. mistake. Even Wuthering Heights, dear v'el raged Edinburgh 10, would be a better nuIl„d if Bronte had stuck to a single narrator, a" t Lord Maugham's trick of having a different, narrator for every chapter is most aggrave

ing. „Oaf But this is no time for a repetition of i f a--,14

whines and entreaties. When I first 10'1'4. The Spectator in 1967 my predecessor tical correspondent, the great Alan W8'' o1 wrote me an Open Letter along the lines,,,ts Knox's Chaplaincraft, giving practical h,u, and sage advice about the job. The unfur' t nate circumstances of my leaving that P'74 prevented me from passing on the benefits,. experience to my successor, and on this u'ol casion my task is not made easier bY knowing the name of the person to whon'1,011 Open Letter should be addressed. To from some of the names floating arounu'm might not be the sort of person to whom °,1"er would address a letter of any sort. l‘le mind, here goes: An open fetter on reviewcraft

Dear Sir or Madam, fi

Congratulations on your appointment as tion reviewer of The Spectator. Here are few hints. kndIY (1) Money. Reviewing is extremely mill paid, and you will not be able to main'''n, even the pretence of middle-class comfort u less you have about three regular engagements concurrently. The reason it is so badly Paid is that the market is upset by an enormous lump of university lecturers in English Who are prepared to review for practically nothing, receiving all the money they need from the taxpayer. They are anxious only to see their names in print, reckoning that it will assist them in their miserable academic careers. Luckily for us, these people are often illiterate and always extremely dim obviously nobody in a free country would wish to become a university lecturer in Engish unless he was extremely dim. A few unscrupulous and stingy editors employ these people, which is part of the reason why the novel has fallen into such disrepute. But as soon as you have established yourself, don't hesitate to demand more money. The boredom of finding a replacement is a strong point in your favour.

(2) Status. If, when your identity is known, it transpires that The Spectator has in fact decided to economise and hire a university lecturer in English as its novel reviewer you will probably wish to disregard the previous paragraph. In any case, you must realise that the status and function of novel reviewing are quite different from those of academic criticism. The reviewer is not concerned to explain or interpret a work of art, or even to sit in judgement on it, least of all is he concerned to arrange it in some hierarchy of relative 'importance.' The novel reviewer's status is not a particularly exalted one in the world of Journalism somewhere underneath the bicycling and cricket correspondents, above only the ballet critic. One must remember there is nothing godlike or even kingly in his station, although many reviewers fall into this error. His equivalent at court is that of the man who tastes all food before it reaches the royal lips to ensure that it is edible and has not been poisoned.

(3) Function. The first aim of a reviewer, as With anybody who writes, is to be read. No matter how learned, whimsical or kind you are, you do no service to the author under review, to the cause of the novel, to your Editor, to yourself or to anybody else if nobody wants to read you. Once you have caught your reader's interest and even if you fill your review column with dirty limericks and anecdotes about your pets, you will have drawn somebody's attention to the book Your function is twofold. In the first place, you must give your readers enough idea of the book to allow them to decide for themselves whether or not they want to try it. In the second place you address yourself to the author, praising him for what is good in his novel, suggesting where there is room for improvement and where he may have gone wrong, so that he does not make the same mistakes a second time. The second function is just as important as the first, as few novelists have any contact with their readers apart from adulatory exchanges with friends and relatives, while many publishers are either too idle, too stupid or too polite to offer this sort of help.

(4) Method. The great secret is not to ask -yourself whether you approve of a book or think it good but to allow yourself to react to it, even if only with exasperation. The key quality in reviewing is not judiciousness or erudition or good taste, least of all is it mod eration. It is liveliness of response. At times it may be necessary to exaggerate your reaction to a novel, but you should never fake one. If You find the novel boring, don't be frightened of saying so. If you find it incomprehensible, denounce it as a bad novel. If you couldn't finish it, admit this and say why. Remember that nobody except the author is really interested in your fatuous opinion, favourable or Otherwise. People read you if they read you at all, to be informed and . stimulated.

(5) Hazards. Don't be frightened of making enemies, but remember that few authors will ever forgive you for a really hostile review, however much they may smile and shake

your hand. They will attribute the most extraordinary motives to your behaviour and brood vindictively for the rest of their lives.

Don't suppose there is much headway to be made in ' literary' circles through novel reviewing. Very few of the Grand Old Men of modern criticism ever actually read a new novel, having decided that the novel died with their own ridiculous Modern Movement in about 1935.

Avoid the company of your fellow-reviewers. Even if they are not boring and unpleasant to meet, there is no help in them.

Never trust a publisher who has once recommended a bad book.

Don't be too proud to go back to a novel you have missed, if other reviewers make it sound interesting.

Don't worry if you review a novel in the wrong week, although it is kind if you try to get it right. Don't be frightened to insult publishers by name, if their books are shoddily produced or over-priced, the dustcover is offensive or the blurb particularly inept. They are very sensitive people and a little abuse often works wonders.

Above all, remember that novels take a very long time to write; that the writing of them is a lonely and thankless business; that its main purpose should be (even if it isn't always) the entirely benign one of diverting and stimulating the rest of mankind. Don't spare your thunder from a novel which displeases or offends, but if there are any good qualities in it, list them, too. Above all, never dismiss a novel in a few lines with a sneer. Far better ignore it altogether, however eminent the author.

(6) Rewards. If you persevere you will find that there are more people writing better novels-both here and in America-than at any previous moment in history. Most of these novelists are fairly young, although by no' means all of them are, and they are nearly all unnoticed and unsung in the prevalent climate of novel criticism. There is a certain lonely pleasure to be derived from shouting about them in the little padded cell which The Spectator is kind enough to provide.