Unwritten Books

THE theory that every man ought, for the sake of himself and society, to be writing a book has many points in its favor. But unfortunately this theory is frequently misunderstood. I am not for one moment saying that the book should be published, or, for that matter, that it should ever be finished. The essential thing is simply that the work should be, as they say, in progress.

Recently I had the pleasure of discussing this theory with a friend of mine who, it happens, has been writing a book for many years. He is an authority on the life and works of Mrs. Inchbald, that accomplished and delightful lady who held sway over the British stage during perhaps its (artistically) worst period. He agreed with me perfectly that the lot of a man who is writing a book is a happy one, especially if there is no immediate prospect of its being finished.

When this friend first stood forth as an authority on the fascinating Mrs. Inchbald, he stood, so he tells me, alone. Her numerous virtues were quite unknown, at least among his friends. So when it got about that he was a practically inexhaustible fount of knowledge on the subject he came to be reputed a man of great learning. This, he tells me, was just what he needed most at the time. It was a sort of slap on the back of his morale, and he attributes most of his present overweening selfconfidence to the fact that, for so long, people looked up to him and whispered to each other, ‘He’s an authority on Mrs. Inchbald.’

But that is only one of the many advantages of being engaged in writing a book. To be writing a book is to have the one universal, or hydra-headed, alibi. I should say that, according to any reasonable standard, it stands at the top of the list, being superior even to ‘My wife has not been feeling very well lately.’ If one is writing a book, one has one’s dignity to maintain; hence, one easily deserts the bridge table or the ping-pong court without embarrassment. Then again, it is unnecessary for the man with a book in progress to know all about Anti-Hoarding, or to be familiar with the outcome of the latest International Conference on Traffic in Women and Children. His friends readily understand that these ‘ are not in his field. Writing a book is, in short, an excuse for vast acres of ignorance.

Yet, paradoxically, the man who is writing a book may, if he chooses, stand as an authority on almost anything; for it is one of the strange characteristics of our day that an authority on any one thing is an authority on everything. The views of Mr. Henry Ford on racial problems or points of morality are eagerly sought after. A great physicist like Mr. Millikan becomes automatically an expert in regard to the Life to Come. The man who is writing a book may also, if he chooses, become an oracle in his modest way.

To be writing a book is the perfect defense against undesirable invitations. Everyone understands that a dog at his bone is less dangerous than an author at work.

To be writing a book is the perfect excuse for personal eccentricities. People always expect those who write books to do strange things. ‘Interesting fellow,’ they murmur, charmed. ‘They say he’s writing a book.’

To be writing a book gives one — provided one has the leisure and the means and a proper subject — the perfect excuse for travel.

If one is writing, let us say, of some obscure aspect of the thirteenth century, one keeps popping back and forth across the ocean. One must soak one’s self frequently in atmosphere if one is to do sound work. Opportunities arise, also, or are made, for establishing the most delightful connections in the course of one’s poppings. There are always famous persons who might just possibly be able to offer a little help on some nice point of interpretation.

But perhaps best of all are the conversational uses to which an unwritten book may be put. At that inevitable but always horrifying moment when the conversation skips a beat, someone may always ask, ‘And how is the great work coming along?’

Instantly, with a general shifting of chairs and recrossing of legs, the conversation begins to pick up. Old friends thank God for the great work; new ones are curious. After due urging, your man who is writing a book eases himself into his subject. When the conversation is definitely purring again, he quietly eases himself out, saving his great work for some larger social crisis. Or, if necessary, he may keep going until bedtime. Socially, to be writing a book is more valuable than the ability to order a meal in French, or skill at the snare drums, or both.

Still, one cannot emphasize too strongly the importance of choosing the right book to write. The example of my friend, the authority on Mrs. Inchbald, illustrates this point very neatly. It is in some ways a sad case, for Mrs. Inchbald was a charming woman and an almost perfect subject, and my friend has finally had to throw her over. A year or so ago she began to cause him all sorts of trouble. Through some baffling complex of circumstances, a host of Inchbald authorities sprang up where none had been before. If he ventures now to open his mouth about the dear lady, he finds himself addressing a group of fellow specialists. His well-meant observations are greeted with a chilly silence, if not with contradiction. What was offered merely to divert his fellow guests from the Decay of Capitalism or the Menace of the Dole threatens to start fights on its own account. And, worst of all, he recently entered the library of a certain very inconspicuous college and inquired of the librarian if she had any Inchbaldiana. She looked at him without emotion and replied that there was a graduate seminar in Inchbald.

It was at this point that he definitely abandoned her, relatives and all, though he still trembles to think what that seminar may be doing to her.

But what to turn to? It is hard to decide; the proper subject for an unwritten book is very difficult to come by. I had one friend who inclined toward Mr. J. B. Buckstone, known to literature as ‘the foremost low comedian of the nineteenth century,’ Books are written about foremost tragedians, yes, and about foremost comedians; but seldom about foremost low comedians. Add to this the fact that he was the only man ever known to make Queen Victoria guffaw loudly in public, and he seems perfect. Yet even Buckstone has his disadvantages, one of which is an appalling shortage of Buckstoneana.

Of course there is always Chivers, that curious fellow who was ‘a friend of Edgar Allan Poe,’ to fall back on. But one fears that there are already too many Chivers authorities. Still another possibility is that which was suggested long ago by the critical Mr. Spingarn. Mr. Spingarn thinks that someone ought to write a history of the concept of the ‘gentleman,’ the thought being, I take it, that the appropriate time for writing the history of a concept is when that concept no longer enjoys high favor. He may be right, yet even this nearly ideal subject has its weak points. One of these is, of course, that it may hardly be discussed in the presence of any gentlemen who happen still to be practising their art.

These few examples make it clear enough that the perfect subject does not lurk beneath every doormat, but must be searched for very diligently.

PHILIP WAGNER