The Assassin's Cloak. Группа авторов
at definition is defeated by the diarists themselves, who are the most singular of species. More than any other branch of literature, diaries revel in otherness. Like a chameleon, a diary can change its colour to suit the mood of its keeper. It can be whatever the diarist wants it to be. Kafka used his to pour out his angst and limber up for his novels and short stories; Dorothy Wordsworth brought her botanical eye to the landscape of the Lake District, providing rich source material which her brother William mined for his poetry; Virginia Woolf spoke to hers as she might to an intimate friend, in so doing etching a portrait of the artist on the edge of the abyss.
All contributed to the mosaic that is life. But one keeps coming back to William Soutar, lying on his back in bed as his health evaporated. His diary is an inspiration; it may be the work of a dying man but he lived for the moment. Soutar sagely realised better than most the ambiguous potential of a diary, imbued as it inevitably is with secrecy, and all it implies. A diary may be like drink, but it is also only as reliable as the diarist, who may be honest or corrupt or deceitful or a self-delusionist. Not only can it persuade us to betray the self, wrote Soutar, ‘it tempts us to betray our fellows also, becoming thereby an alter ego sharing with us the denigrations which we would be ashamed of voicing aloud; a diary is an assassin’s cloak which we wear when we stab a comrade in the back with a pen. And here is this diary proving its culpability to its own harm — for how much on this page is true to the others?’
Alan Taylor
August 2000
Acknowledgements
Many people have contributed to this anthology, sometimes unsuspectingly. Throughout its long genesis countless suggestions have been made. Some bore fruit; others were added to the compost heap of rejection; all were very welcome. Two newspapers, Scotland on Sunday and The Scotsman, were enlightened enough to run diary columns for some years and their then editors deserve our thanks. In an enterprise such as this libraries play an essential role, none more so than Edinburgh City Libraries, principally the Central Lending Library whose long-suffering staff were unfailingly helpful. From the outset, our publisher, Canongate, provided enthusiasm, commitment and ideas, many of which have significantly improved the quality of the book. In particular, Jamie Byng and Judy Moir ferreted out diarists we had overlooked or never heard of and were a constant source of advice. Our biggest debt of gratitude, however, is to the diarists whose personal revelations and indiscreet observations made this anthology such fun to compile.
Irene and Alan Taylor
August 2000
JANUARY
‘The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with that he vowed to make it.’
J. M. BARRIE
1 January
1662
Waking this morning out of my sleep on a sudden, I did with my elbow hit my wife a great blow over her face and nose, which waked her with pain, at which I was sorry, and to sleep again.
Samuel Pepys
1763
I went to Louisa at one. ‘Madam, I have been thinking seriously.’ ‘Well, Sir, I hope you are of my way of thinking.’ ‘I hope, Madam, you are of mine. I have considered this matter most seriously. The week is now elapsed, and I hope you will not be so cruel as to keep me in misery.’ (I then began to take some liberties.) ‘Nay, Sir – now – but do consider–’ ‘Ah, Madam!’ ‘Nay, but you are an encroaching creature!’ (Upon this I advanced to the greatest freedom by a sweet elevation of the charming petticoat.) ‘Good heaven, Sir!’ ‘Madam, I cannot help it. I adore you. Do you like me?’ (She answered me with a warm kiss, and pressing me to her bosom, sighed, ‘O Mr Boswell!’) ‘But, my dear Madam! Permit me, I beseech you.’ ‘Lord, Sir, the people may come in.’ ‘How then can I be happy? What time? Do tell me.’ ‘Why, Sir, on Sunday afternoon my landlady, of whom I am most afraid, goes to church, so you may come here a little after three.’ ‘Madam, I thank you a thousand times.’
James Boswell
1829
Having omitted to carry on my diary for two or three days, I lost heart to make it up, and left it unfilld for many a month and day. During this period nothing has happend worth particular notice. The same occupations, the same amusements, the same occasional alterations of spirits, gay or depressd, the same absence of all sensible or rational cause for the one or the other – I half grieve to take up my pen, and doubt if it is worth while to record such an infinite quantity of nothing. But hang it! I hate to be beat so here goes for better behaviour.
Sir Walter Scott
1866
Travelling in France, it is a misfortune to be a Frenchman. The wing of the chicken at a table d’hôte always goes to the Englishman. He is the only person the waiter serves. Why is this? Because the Englishman does not look upon the waiter as a man, and any servant who feels that he is being regarded as a human being despises the person considering him in that light.
The Brothers Goncourt
1902
What I have to write today is terribly sad. I called on Gustav – in the afternoon we were alone in his room. He gave me his body – & I let him touch me with his hand. Stiff and upright stood his vigour. He carried me to the sofa, laid me gently down and swung himself over me. Then – just as I felt him penetrate, he lost all strength. He laid his head on my breast, shattered – and almost wept for shame. Distraught as I was, I comforted him.
We drove home, dismayed and dejected. He grew a little more cheerful. Then I broke down, had to weep, weep on his breast. What if he were to lose – that! My poor, poor, husband!
I can scarcely say how irritating it all was. First his intimate caresses, so close – and then no satisfaction. Words cannot express what I today have undeservedly suffered, and then to observe his torment – his unbelievable torment!
My beloved!
Alma Mahler-Werfel
1914
What a vile little diary! But I am determined to keep it this year.
Katherine Mansfield
1915
We were kept awake last night by New Year Bells. At first I thought they were ringing for a victory.
Virginia Woolf
1970 [Ardnamurchan, Scotland]
As I was up long before the other members of the household I carried out the old ritual of going out by the back door, and bringing in a lump of coal by the front door. After that I did my usual daily stint of lighting the fire and making their morning tea for the sleepers! Some showers before daylight. Forenoon damp with intermittent smirr and hill fog. Wind Westerly, light to moderate, at first but veered Northwesterly in the evening. Showers from mid-day onwards. Afternoon and evening raw and cold. No sunshine. Apart from [his wife] Eliz’s illness, the year just ended was a good one for us in every way. No post tonight.
Ian Maclean
1983
New Year’s Day
These are my New Year resolutions:
1. I will revise for my ‘O’ levels at least two hours a night.
2. I will stop using my mother’s Buff-Puff to clean the bath.
3. I will buy a suede brush for my coat.
4. I will stop thinking erotic thoughts during school hours.
5. I will oil my bike once a week.