WRITING IN THE DARK : BLOOMSBURY, THE BLITZ, AND HORIZON MAGAZINE
By Will Loxley
Weidenfeld & Nicolson. 388 pages. £25. ISBN 978-1-4746-1570-9
Reviewed by Jim Burns
There is something about the period covered by this book – roughly
1939-45, give or take a little bit on either side – that continues
to intrigue. Is it because it was a time when the threat of death or
serious injuries seemed possible, so living was more intense? Or is
it because the people who were then active in the literary world
appear to have been, in some ways, more talented and courageous than
we are? It’s difficult to imagine that
going to work in an office or factory in the morning might
mean returning home in the evening to find the place where we lived
no longer in existence. And, of course, there was always the threat
of conscription hanging over the heads of those eligible to serve in
the armed forces. Some people didn’t wait to be called up and
volunteered, others went when summoned, perhaps not always willingly
but with a broad feeling that wearing a uniform was an unfortunate
necessity.
Certain people managed to find ways to serve without having to don
khaki or whatever. They worked for government departments, such as
the Ministry of Information, producing material to boost national
morale. A few found ways around conscription by faking illnesses.
Will Loxley tells the tale of Dylan Thomas deliberately drinking
himself into a state where his appearance before the draft board
would show him as unfit for service. It can be seen as a not very
noble act, but I doubt that he would have made a useful soldier in
any case. Julian Maclaren-Ross did have a brief army stint, but was
soon discharged on medical grounds. Some of his short stories record
the experience of life in a barrack-room in his usual laid-back
manner.
And then there were Auden and Isherwood who decided before
hostilities got under way that life in the United States would suit
them better. Oxley discusses their roles in the literature of the
1930s and the impact their leaving Britain had on the literary
left-wing of the time. From Loxley’s account, both were experiencing
a feeling of dissatisfaction with the “Popular Front, the party
line, the anti-Fascist struggle”. Or were they just bored and had
never truly been all that committed? For many people, not
necessarily always from the left, it was an act of betrayal,
especially so where Auden was concerned.
Loxley seems to come down
harder on him than on Isherwood, and his account of the poet passing
through London in an American Army officer’s uniform at the end of
the war, and extolling the virtues of
life in the United States,
has a slightly disapproving, if understandable ring to it.
Writing in the Dark
isn’t concerned to tell us what life was like in uniform. As its
title indicates it mostly revolves round the denizens of Bloomsbury,
their literary activities, and their experiences of the Blitz.
Virginia and Leonard Woolf, and their Hogarth Press, clearly have a
part to play in the narrative, and so does John Lehman. Although at
one time deeply involved with the running of the Hogarth Press,
Lehman eventually fell out with Leonard Woolf. He was soon to become
editor of Penguin New Writing
which proved popular and easily outsold
Horizon. To be fair, the
aims of the two magazines differed. In simple terms,
Penguin New Writing
considered itself very much of its time in that it printed a wide
range of material from a wide range of contributors and reflected
life in the forces and the factories. It would be wrong to suggest
that it only used such material, however, and its contents were
varied.
Horizon,
on the other hand, was designed more to sustain an air of cultural
independence. It looked back to past periods to summon up a tone of
intellectual seriousness that, it seemed, needed to be cultivated in
the dark days of the War. It would have been hard to imagine
Penguin New Writing
publishing Enid Starkie’s two-part essay about “Eccentrics of
Eighteen-Thirty”, which
Horizon did in May and June, 1944.
But would John Hampson’s “Movements in the Underground” have
appeared in Cyril Connolly’s magazine? It was published by Lehman in
the Spring and Summer 1946 issues of
Penguin New Writing. It’s
doubtful if many of the writers referred to by Hampson would have
been of great interest to Connolly. To add a personal note, I was
delighted when, visiting second-hand bookshops, I picked up somewhat
worn but readable copies of the issues of
Horizon with the Starkie
essay. It is entertaining and informative.
Stephen Spender appeared in both magazines and receives much more
than a passing mention in
Writing in the Dark. Described by Loxley as “the poster boy of
the movement of British intellectuals against fascism”, he seemed to
be everywhere in literary London. He had something of a colourful
personal life, too, with “sexual adventures” with both men and
women. I can recall a conversation with an old poet and communist
who had been around in the 1930s when one of Spender’s male
companions ran off to join the International Brigades in Spain. He
was quite scathing about Spender’s own reasons for going to Spain –
“in pursuit of his boy-friend” – but Loxley says that he felt guilty
for having persuaded the man in question that communism was
beneficial and Franco had to be defeated. He is, in fact, largely
sympathetic to Spender during the wartime years, and acknowledges
that, as opposed to Auden and Isherwood, he’d stayed in England, and
served in the Auxiliary Fire Service during the Blitz.
It’s fascinating to read about Cyril Connolly and what might on the
surface seem his haphazard way of editing
Horizon. As was made
clear in D.J. Taylor’s Lost
Girls: Love, War and Literature 1939-59 (Constable, 2019),
much of the work essential to keep the magazine appearing
regularly in difficult circumstances was done by various women who,
for one reason or another, found Connolly attractive and
interesting. It might be difficult now to understand why that was
so, though it could be that he overwhelmed them with his
intellectual capabilities. He was better-educated than they were,
and presumably had some sort of charisma to persuade them that he
was worthy of their admiration. But reading about his general
behaviour during the war years doesn’t make him out to be an
endearing character.
The impression is that he was selfish and almost viewed the war as a
personal affront to his needs and interests. Loxley has a pointed
comment to make about how Connolly probably saw the general
situation with regard to what he looked to for inspiration:
“Literature was in fact becoming more democratic but less
important”. The success of
Penguin New Writing, and of another similar pocket-paperback
magazine, Reginald Moore’s
Modern Reading, indicates how a democratic spirit prevailed both
in the contents and distribution. And was literature “less
important” because of that fact? Connolly’s elitist (some would say)
opinion may not have been the right one.
Having said that, I have to admit to thinking that he made a major
contribution to asserting the need to maintain a belief in a
civilised way of living and appreciating art and literature. I have
a copy of The Golden Horizon
(Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1953), an anthology edited by Connolly from
the magazine, and it shows how much excellent writing appeared in
Horizon. And that,
whatever Connolly’s own feelings about the war may have been, he
didn’t overlook the way in which writers were responding to it. A
line like “Sweet the grey morning, and the raiders gone”, from a
short poem by E.J. Scovell, captures the sense of relief at having
survived one more night that must have been a common experience at
the time.
The atmosphere during the Blitz Is well-evoked by Loxley, as is the
later phase when “flying bombs” began to hit London in 1944. That it
was possible to hear them approaching, and then the motors cutting
out so they could fall, meant that apprehension became a part of
daily life: “The fact that the doodlebugs were coming over at all
hours of the day meant that not only sleep but also work, meetings
and parties were now constantly being interrupted”. Loxley quotes an
anecdote about a poetry reading involving Edith Sitwell and her
brothers, Osbert and Sacheverell. She was reading as the sound of an
approaching doodlebug became obvious: “Only once, between a line or
stanza break, did her eyes lift to the ceiling, before continuing to
read at greater volume”. John Lehman recalled that it was a
“magnificent performance”, and Loxley adds that “The implication, as
everyone in the audience felt at the time, was that poetry was more
important than all the terrors that Hitler could launch against
them”. I can’t help wondering if Cyril Connolly was present at the
reading?
Anecdotes often illustrate a time and place better than detailed
descriptions, and more than one of the personalities who appear in
Writing in the Dark can
provide material for them. Dylan Thomas is an obvious example, and
his behaviour was usually guaranteed to upset many people. But the
story that made me smile is the one about Thomas’s reaction when
Julian Maclaren-Ross suggested keeping a bottle in the office where
they both worked so they could have a pick-me-up for the inevitable
mornings-after both often suffered from. Thomas, it seems, was
shocked at the idea of drinking in the office.
Loxley, incidentally, has a short, but interesting discussion about
whether or not Thomas can accurately described as a “war poet”. He
comes to the conclusion that, although he may not have been in
uniform, and perhaps gave the impression that he wasn’t much
involved in the “war effort”, he did produce poems about what was
happening. Looking back, Connolly included “Deaths and Entrances”
and “A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London” in
The Golden Horizon
anthology.
When Paris was liberated Philip Toynbee wrote an article for the
November 1944 issue of
Horizon in which he said: “I know that praise of France at the
expense of England is a greatly hated activity, but after sixteen
days in this astonishing Paris of September 1944 it is an activity
which cannot honestly be avoided……..the galleries are opening. The
bookshops are anything but bare, the people are a thousand times
more alive than London people”. He doesn’t seem to have offered an
explanation of why Parisians were “more alive”. Was it simply the
joy they felt at being liberated, whereas in September 1944
Londoners were still being bombed and it would be several more
months before the war ended? There probably isn’t a single reason
for the difference.
Loxley doesn’t take his account much beyond the end of the war.
Horizon continued for a
few more years, and it was significant that its large October 1947
issue featured American writers and critics. It was a sign of the
increasing importance and influence of American literature. But 1950
saw the magazine calling it a day, as did
Penguin New Writing with
its 50th
number. The boom years for little magazines were over as the
realities of peace-time brought worries about work, housing,
families, and other concerns. The late-1940s and into the
early-1950s were years of austerity and there was little spare money
to spend on producing or buying literary publications. And many of
the writers who had written a few poems or a story or two in
response to their experiences no longer felt the need, or had the
time, to write when they returned to civilian life.
It may seem that Will Loxley has covered some familiar ground in
Writing in the Dark as he
works his way through the lives and wartime writings of Cyril
Connolly, Stephen Spender, George Orwell, Virginia Woolf, Dylan
Thomas and other well-known names, with asides about the
lesser-known, like William Sansom, whose stories of firefighting in
London are worth reading, and George Garrett, a now-forgotten
working-class writer from Liverpool. But he’s managed to bring it
all together in a very assured and readable manner. He quite
successfully evokes the atmosphere of wartime London with its
ever-present threat of death or injury and its effects on the
literary scene. There are ample notes and recommendations for
further reading.
|