P. J. Kavanagh
One stands out head and shoulders, be- cause it is long and I wished it longer: Philip Toynbee's End of a Journey (Bloomsbury, £25) an honest, unoleagi- nous daily account of his search for God. He and his wife go for a walking pilgrimage to Chartres and, by way of relaxation, meet up with his old friend Jessica Mitford. She tells a story: A widow goes to a séance to contact her husband. 'What is it like there, dear?"0h, we run about a bit, eat a bit, have sex, run about a bit more."But, dear, I didn't know Heaven was like that?' 'Oh, I'm not in Heaven, I'm a rabbit in Australia.'
Or is that story in the first journal, Part of a Journey? It doesn't matter; both are worth reading, but in the second, by the end, you feel he has very nearly got, there, and as the dogged, self-observant attempt is the most serious anyone can make, his account is the most entertaining, inspiring book imaginable.
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