MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON
LORD JOWITT is a popular Chancellor. On ceremonial occasions he represents with fitting grandeur the dignity of his high office ; but once divested of his robes and stockings he becomes a human being again, taking much pleasure in the company and con- versation of ordinary men. I have seen it stated that Lord Jowitt has had to undertake a long sea voyage since his health has broken down from over-work. That is an exaggerated statement. He has been suffering from insomnia ; his eyes have been giving him trouble ; he needs 'a rest ; there is nothing worse than that. Everyone will echo the words of sympathy and regret expressed on this occasion by the leaders of the three Parties in the House of Lords. Lord Jowitt himself, on his slow journey to Malta, will be annoyed if he reads the statement that it was over-work which necessitated this holiday. Lawyers do not know what over-work is, and would rightly despise -any man who went away simply because he had too much to do. I have in the past discussed with Lord Jowitt this problem of over-work, and have found that in general he agreed with me that there was no such thing. A man may lose his health, suffer from periods of sleeplessness, have trouble with his eyes, or become involved in distracting personal complications ; a man may become so frightened of the responsibilities imposed upon him that his fingers shake in the day-time and his legs twitch suddenly in the night ; a man may be of an uncertain temperament and cause himself endless anxiety by hesitating between alternatives ; or a man may be so interrupted by outside obligations that his inability to concentrate upon his main task creates acute nervous tension. It is not the amount of work which causes the strain, it is the shortage of avail- able time. If one's time is too short ; if one's working hours are constantly being interrupted ; if worry or ill-health come to impede concentration ; then a state of anxiety is created which may have damaging consequences. But it is the amount of the anxiety, not the amount of the work, which is the root of the trouble.
Technically speaking, I have, I suppose, been " over-worked " for the last forty years. I can claim, therefore, to know something about the subject. The first essential is, of course, a sound constitution, by which I mean, not so much an abundance of physical or nervous energy, as the absence of ill-health. For a person who can sleep eight hours a night, who at any moment can sit in a hard chair or in a railway carriage and snooze for twenty minutes, who is but rarely afflicted by pains in the head or eyes or limbs, and who has a eupeptic condition of body, there should be no such thing as "over- work." My .deepest admiration goes out to those who are physically or nervously infirm and who are yet able to conquer their disabilities and to oblige themselves, day in and day out, to produce their quota of labour ; we toughs have no right whatsoever to be complacent about our toughness. I realise also that the strain entailed by public or official responsibilities is, without comparison, more acute than that which any literary labours can create. To write a book requires an effort of continuous application ; but it is a tranquil application, and not exposed to the sound and fury of public affairs. A book does not shout back at one, or stroll in for a chat when one is busy, or require, as public speaking requires, the constant renewal of physical and nervous energy. A book is a cosy companionable little thing, which is always there and never interrupts. Its problems can be handled playingly in the sessions of sweet, silent thought. The time pressure is seldom excruciating, prompt decisions are not needed, and mistakes can be corrected with ease. The strain is slight.
* * * * In public or official affairs, however, the amount of work to be completed is always greater than the uninterrupted time available ; a state of anxiety is caused. I am not considering the question of relative responsibility, I am considering the time-factor only. Obviously, if I write a foolish book or article, I cause damage mainly to myself ; but if a statesman or an official makes a foolish decision he is causing damage to his fellow-citizens ; the conscious-
ness of this danger much increases the anxiety created by the pressure of time. Yet, in fact, it is this time-pressure, more even than the sense of responsibility, which renders public, as distinct from private, over-work so fearful an ordeal. We are not always aware of, or sufficiently considerate regarding, the terrible inter- ruptions to which Ministers and high officials are exposed. I remember a former head of the Foreign Office describing to me the mood of almost panic despair which would assail him when interrupted in his work. It was his duty, during the afternoon, to receive foreign Ambassadors and Ministers. The more serious envoys would be aware of the time-pressure to which he was exposed and would cut their interviews as short as possible ; it would be the minor envoys who would take the opportunity to indulge in amicable conversation, giving him their views about the English climate, the architecture of London, and the cooking at the St. James's Club. While they were thus chattering, the red boxes, each bearing its label of extreme urgency, would accumulate upon his table until they formed a wall of cyclopean masonry. His brain would reel with giddiness.
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The private worker, however, should not be exposed to such intrusions on his time. He also will need to adopt methods of organisation and self-discipline if the work in front of him is not to be rendered more alarming by the nervous strain of interrup- tion. It often seems strange to me that idle people should say to busy people: "I wonder how you find time to do so much." No busy person finds time: he makes it. It is true that in this modern world few people can enjoy the privilege of uninterrupted working hours ; most writers have to devote some hours of their day to chores. But at least they should be able, within reason, to devise a rigid time-table such as will set aside certain prescribed times for household labours and certain other uninterrupted hours for their literary work. It is not the actual number of writing hours which Is so important as the necessity that the hours allotted to writing should be continuous, detached, uninterrupted and self-contained. The creative writer, who must rely on inspiration, is bound, of course, to work by fits and starts, and for him or her the person from Porlock intolerably intrudes. But the ordinary hack writer like myself should be able, with a little organisation, to introduce a certain rhythm into his working hours and thereby much diminish the strain of time. If he be able to do his work in the country then he should indeed consider himself blessed. Almost immune to the Interrup- tions of the telephone and the casual visitor, debarred from the delights of social conviviality, he will work silently, distracted only by the guffaws of woodpeckers in the day-time and the hooting of the owls at night.
I am not saying that I have never felt the giddiness of being over-worked or longed to leave it all and go off to Malta in a boat. I can claim to recognise the symptoms. There are the fingers which, during an interview, drum surreptitiously under the table, the eyes which dart sly glances at the clock. There is a sharpness of tone when picking up the telephone, or, in serious cases, the elaborate languor which is assumed. Above all there is the nausea and momentary giddiness which assail one at the prospect of even more work. I do not deny all this. All I am seeking to convey is that the amount of work one has to do becomes less alarming when there is no urgent pressure of time. That with a little organisa- tion one can diminish interruptions and obtain at least a few rhythmical hours of continuous tranquillity. That the untidy time- keeper finds his hours of work distracted by interruptions and his hours of ease darkened by guilty conscience. And that the tidy time-keeper (although a nuisance to his friends and family), becomes a good accountant, knowing where he can spend or save and thus more immune to those tremors of impatience and anxiety which are often carelessly described as over-work.
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