The Assassin's Cloak. Группа авторов
1912
Camp 68. Height 9, 760. T. -23.5º. The worst has happened, or nearly the worst. We marched well in the morning and covered 7½ miles. Noon sight showed us in Lat. 89° 42’ S., and we started off in high spirits in the afternoon, feeling that tomorrow would see us at our destination. About the second hour of the march Bowers’ sharp eyes detected what he thought was a cairn; he was uneasy about it, but argued that it must be a sastrugus. Half an hour later he detected a black speck ahead. Soon we knew that this could not be a natural snow feature. We marched on, found that it was a black flag tied to a sledge bearer; near by the remains of a camp; sledge tracks and ski tracks going and coming and the clear trace of dogs; paws – many dogs. This told us the whole story. The Norwegians have forestalled us and are first at the Pole. It is a terrible disappointment, and I am very sorry for my loyal companions. Many thoughts come and much discussion have we had. Tomorrow we must march on to the Pole and then hasten home with all the speed we can compass. All the day-dreams must go; it will be a wearisome return. Certainly we are descending in altitude – certainly also the Norwegians found an easy way up.
Captain Robert Falcon Scott
1919
Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg have met with a dreadful and fantastic end. The midday editions of the newspapers have published the story. Last night Liebknecht was shot from behind while being taken in a truck through the Tiergarten and, so it is said, trying to escape. Rosa Luxemburg, having been interrogated by officers of the Guards Cavalry Division in the Eden Hotel, was first beaten unconscious by a crowd there and then, on the canal bridge, was dragged out of the car in which she was being removed. Allegedly she was killed. Her body has at any rate disappeared. But, according to what is known so far, she could have been rescued and brought to safety by party comrades. Through the civil war, which she and Liebknecht plotted, they had so many lives on their conscience that their violent end has, as it were, a certain inherent logic. The manner of their deaths, not the deaths themselves, is what causes consternation.
Count Harry Kessler
1979
Today I began a regime which will probably last for twenty-four hours. I jogged in the bedroom for about twenty-five minutes and did some exercises. Resolved not to eat any bread, potatoes or sugar, and to stop smoking. It’s terrifying the extent to which one is dependent on drugs. If I tried to give up tea as well, I think I should go mad!
. . . It’s 10.45 pm and I still haven’t smoked.
Tony Benn
1995
Opening of Interview with the Vampire in Dublin. Tom Cruise comes over, bless his heart. He promised to do so months ago, and I had always thought circumstances would intervene. But here he is, causing a sensation in O’Connell Street. Police holding back crowds, as if the Beatles had returned. He makes his way through a quite terrifying line and finds time to talk to everybody. All I know is I couldn’t do it.
A party afterwards in Dublin Castle. Liam Neeson turns up. And Michael D. Higgins and a group of British MPs who have come to see how the tax-breaks have worked for the Irish film industry, James Callaghan and a Labour spokesman for Defence among them. I talk to him for a while and get the impression they found the film quite loathsome. Maybe they don’t want this kind of activity on their shores after all. When you have Shakespeare, why do you need movies?
Neil Jordan
17 January
1912
Camp 69. T. -22º at start. Night -21º. The Pole. Yes, but under very different circumstances from those expected. We have had a horrible day – and to add to our disappointment a head wind 4 to 5, with a temperature -22º, and companions labouring on with cold feet and hands.
Captain Robert Falcon Scott
1919
In the evening I went to a cabaret in the Bellevuestrasse. The sound of a shot cracked through the performance of a fiery Spanish dancer. Nobody took any notice. It underlined the slight impression that the [Russian] revolution has made on metropolitan life. I only began to appreciate the Babylonian, unfathomably deep, primordial and titanic quality of Berlin when I saw how this historic, colossal event has caused no more than local ripples on the even more colossally eddying movement of Berlin existence. An elephant stabbed with a penknife shakes itself and strides on as if nothing has happened.
Count Harry Kessler
1936
I read Kipling’s verses all the afternoon (he died yesterday). It struck me how good the verses were, how full of genuine vitality, how full of contempt for what I despised – ‘brittle intellectuals’ – and of poetic genius; how, if he praised Empire, it was not at all because he had not counted the cost (who has expressed better the wrongs of the common soldier?) but because, men being what they are, he saw it as one of the less despicable manifestations of their urge to over-run and dominate their environment.
Malcolm Muggeridge
1962
Walter Shenson [film producer]. He said he’d been having a talk with Brian Epstein, the Beatles’ manager. He was delighted that I’d like to do the film [script]. ‘So,’ W. Shenson said, ‘you’ll be hearing either from Brian or Paul MacCartney in the near future. So don’t be surprised if a Beatle rings you up.’ ‘What an experience,’ I said. ‘I shall feel as nervous as I would if St Michael or God were on the line.’ ‘Oh, there’s not any need to be worried, Joe,’ Shenson said. ‘I can say, from my heart, that the boys are very respectful of talent. I mean, most respectful of anyone they feel has talent. I can really say that, Joe.’
Joe Orton
1965
Winston Churchill, I fear, is dying at this very moment. I suppose it’s just as well really. Ninety years is a long, long, time. Personally I would rather not wait until the faculties begin to go. However, that must be left in the hands of ‘The One Above’ and I hope he’ll do something about it and not just sit there.
Noël Coward
18 January
1805
I’ve just been reflecting for two hours on my father’s conduct toward me, being deplorably worn down by a strong attack of the slow fever I’ve had for more than seven months. I haven’t been able to recover from it: first, because I didn’t have the money to pay the doctor; in the second place, because, having my feet constantly in the water in this muddy city owing to lack of boots, and suffering in every way from the cold owing to lack of clothing and wood for the fire, it was useless and even harmful to wear down my body with remedies to get rid of an illness which poverty would have given me even if I hadn’t had it already.
If you add to this all the moral humiliations and the worries of a life passed continually with twenty sous, twelve, two, and sometimes nothing in my pocket, you’ll have a slight idea of the state in which that virtuous man has left me.
For two months I’ve been planning to put a description of my condition here; but, in order to describe it, you must regard it, and my only resource is to distract my attention from it.
Just calculate the effect of eight months of slow fever, fed by every possible misfortune, on a temperament which is already attacked by obstructions and weakness in the abdomen, and then come and tell me that my father isn’t shortening my life!
Were it not for my studies, or rather the love of glory that has taken root in my breast in spite of him, I should have blown out my brains five or six times.
Stendhal
1824
I have been reading about an English judge who desired to live to a great age and accordingly proceeded to question every old man he met about his diet and the kind of life he led – whether his longevity