Private Views
A Year of Space. By Eric Linklater. (Macmillan. 18s.) The Life for Me. By Rupert Croft-Cooke. (Macmillan. 18s.) HE who scuds forth upon the voyage of autobiography with all his bravery on and tackle trim knows that he is in peril of becoming the most ridiculous of wrecks. It is all very well if the autobiographer has the gifts and occasions of Heyerdahl or Grimble, if he can write of adventure on the sea and of strange islands ; but he must have abilities amounting to genius who can raise our enthusiasm for the beer-bottles in the larder, the overcoats in the wardrobe or the pretty pets on the hearthrug. Mr. Linklater, when he travels, has the immense advantage of travelling with Mr. Linklater : a man gracefully mundane, percep- tively egotistical, whFse thoughts and observations in all imaginable places could never be dull ; one who combines the simple enjoyments of life with a genial complexity of scholarship and an unsurpassable readiness of allusion. If there is a trace of affectation in his manner, that is perhaps due to the Scottish insistence upon urbanity which began with Boswell and still runs on so pleasantly, though not without its moments of red and rullbd pride. The title of his delight.. ful book is well chosen, for Mr. Linklater moves in a happy relativity of mind where the timeless quality of memory and association is always in contact with immediate and lodal experience ; it is the space of the mind, and not the time of the body, with which he is chiefly concerned.
Although Mr. Linldater speaks of " growing old," nobody, except those who know his age, could imagine that a book so elec- trified with gaiety and relating such diverse encounters in so many lands could have been written by any but a most exceptional youth in the full vigour and enterprise of manhood. The lack of structure does not matter in the least ; for we are concerned here, please remember, with adventures in space, not with a sequence in time. What he says of Wavell may stand well for a view of his own nature : " While he listened to the guns, he heard also in his mind the lyric choir of English poetry."
Perhaps the obbligato of clinking glasses and the gurgle of Meur- sault becomes a little tiresome now and then in the earlier chapters ; but who can resist what Mr. Linklater calls " the open-mindedness with which he entertains passing ideas and casual sensation " ? It is this charming propensity to entertain ideas in so hospitable a mind which gives the entire book its warm and enticing attraction ; no matter whether Mr. Linklater is at home in his northern land, or chatting in Singapore, or flying through Chinese clouds to Hong Kong. And how characteristic of Mr. Linklater's " space " that he is reading Miss Austen within a few moments of being catapulted, most alarmingly, off the deck of an aircraft-carrier in the cockpit of a Firefly !
Mr. Linklater's description of the misery and ruin of Korea, that appalling scene of good intentions thwarted, may seem the most impressive part of his book. Here is a tragedy " made more shock- ing by its general ugliness." But his most astonishing achievement, I think, is that he succeeds in making New Zealand interesting
without an excessive amount of talk about the Maoris. Australia comes pretty near to grounding his fancy, but does not quite succeed • for here again he can skip into the spaces of memory. It is a iamb: ling book, but a ramble with Mr. Linklater is the most delightful of literary excursions.
One cannot say so much, I am afraid, for Mr. Rupert Croft-Cooke. To write an account of " a civilised way of living " is, to begin with, most unpleagantly pretentious, the more so as Mr. Croft-Cooke's definition and illustrations will raise grave doubts in the minds of many readers ; nor can one be greatly stirred by a very detailed description of a not very remarkable house where " a terrace of some sort was a necessity " and the prongs of the neighbours' television-aerials awkwardly stick up on the skyline. Even Mr. Croft-Cooke's touristic walking-sticks have to be photographed, and the bottles in the cupboard under the stairs—which, to one so civilised, is of course known as " the bar."
No doubt the acquisition of his house and the achievement of " civilisation " have been very exciting for Mr. Croft-Cooke ; but does he succeed in making the reader share his enjoyment and applaud his taste ? At least he must be given the credit for providing the prospective house-owner with a great deal of useful information, especially if he lacks the normal complement of a civilised wife. In the garden and the kitchen, where the civilisation is less intense, Mr. Croft-Cooke is happy and informative ; and here I rejoice to see a civilised way of dealing with cabbages. Books come after
cabbages, and Mr. Croft-Cooke writes of them with knowledge, charm and affection, though a most regrettable reference to D. H.
Lawrence does not strike one as particularly " civilised." But how heartily I agree with Mr. Croft-Cooke when he speaks of television as " a painful bore " ! Perhaps I may be allowed to suggest, finally, that a man who does in fact lead a " civilised life " is not likely to refer to it so definitely and so complacently.
C. E. VULLIAMY.
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