All Trivia

WHEN every new book is a “classic,”the word loses most of its integrity and is merely an ornament in the hands of a reviewer. But it any small book of our time deserves to be called a classic in the sense that it has gently helped to enrich the minds of men and women, and has not perceptibly faded or lost luster in the quarter of a century of its existence, that book is Trivia. It is a minor miracle, also, that Trivia begot More Trivia — an equally enchanting and flawless cache of disembodied essays. Some years ago these two were combined with Mr. Smith’s Afterthoughts and published as All Trivia. Now we have a new edition, emended and revised; presumably the aftermost afterthought of the author and afterthinker. In this tidy package, the immortal sketches which proved above all else that fine and even precious writing does not have to be long-winded are preserved for posterity. And may there be an atomic posterity urbane, intelligent, and sufficiently cultivated to keep the book in print.

There is nothing which one can say about Trivia which has not been said many times before. I never see the words Tulip, Lilac, Jasmin, Azure, Taffeta, and Scarlet, for example, without thinking of Magic and that little halfpage essay in exquisite tribute to the Persian influence in our language.

Can there be any who have never so much as looked into Trivia — all or otherwise? If so, may these serve as a sampling.

I sat there, hating the exuberance of her bust, and her highcoloured wig. And how could I listen to hushed music so close to those loud stockings? Then our eyes met: in both of us the enchanted chord was touched; we both looked through the same window into Heaven. In that moment of musical, shared delight, my soul and the unembodied soul of that large lady joined hands and sang like the Morning Stars together.

More than once, too, I have pleased myself with the notion that somewhere there is good Company which will like this small sententious Book — these Thoughts (if I may call them so) dipped up from that phantasmagoria or phosphorescence which, by some unexplained process of combustion, flickers over the large lump of gray soft matter in the bowl of my skull.

No, this is a book, a mind, a personality, a lovely and televisioned daydream. I would give much not to find myself saying that this is the perfect bedside book. It is more than that. It is a day book and night book all in one. It has all the comfort of inconsequential delight which is the best by-product of your true personal philosophy. I come on but one aphorism which frightens me: “Pins, penknives, spectacles, scissors, great paper-cutters, umbrellas, and friends as large as life — the things I lose grow bigger and bigger every day, and one day soon I shall lose the big world itself.”Until I have lost it, I shall not lose the memory of this book.

DAVID MCCORD