I KNOW of a few people who do their writing in bed: propped upon one elbow and closeted from all disturbance, they find a quiet more productive than any daytime hour. But I only know of one man who to-day writes in bed because he can’t get out of it; who guides his pencil between thumb and third finger, the index being too stiff; who is, in short, so twisted by arthritis it is sheer wonder that he writes at all — much less with such poise and perpetual good humor. But Clarence Day has this advantage: like Marcel Proust, who was also by nature a shut-in, he enjoys the full power of reflection. His memory is a rich storehouse, and through it, moving leisurely, he hunts and finds those gestures and expressions to illustrate the characters and the decades he has in mind. The characters are his father, his mother, and he himself, a youngster in the early teens; the time is the 1880’s; the place, New York City.
God and My Father (Knopf, $1.35), a small book published unobtrusively a few seasons ago, was a discovery, though only a few were alert enough to know it at first. Its dimensions were quite simple: Clarence Day recalled the effort and talk with which his mother had persuaded Mr. Day, senior, to become a God-fearing (?) churchgoing man. Now verbatim, now banteringly, he recorded this scene, and the little book that resulted gave you the discernment of biography and the charm of the essay.
Life with Father (Knopf, $2.00), one of the most chuckling books of our time, is certain to enlarge Mr. Day’s audience. Although written with the same perspective, the same gentle wisdom and affectionate humor of the earlier, this volume has a wider view, more amenity, and more comedy to recommend it. Father on horseback, Father’s (and Mother’s) attitude toward ailments, Father hiring a cook, Father and the Potted Palms — these scenes are delightful out of all proportion to their canvas. What happens seems perfectly natural: in those long hours of reflection the author has selected the most characteristic detail, and the exact colloquialism with which to tell it. That is what makes his pages so easy to read aloud. And one thing more: there is a latent irascibleness between father and son, and well does Mr. Day know it. Listen to Father on the telephone: ‘“Lunch with you in Rivington Street? Good God! I never heard of such a thing in my life! . . . Russians? I don’t know any Russians. . . . No, I don’t want to, either. . . . No, I have n’t changed. I never change. . . . What? . . . Good-bye, madam. Damn!”
”’I think that was a friend of mine, Father,” I said.’
A limited number of copies are still available of the Atlantic’s List of Recommended Books for the first six months of 1935. This list will not be published in the magazine, but institutions or individuals may obtain it on application.
