Sunday, September 16, 2001		Article

AUTHORS maddened by critics might take heart by recalling Hemingway’s direct action against critic Max Eastman in 1937. Eastman had questioned Hemingway’s manhood in his review of Death in the Afternoon, which he had sarcastically titled "Bull in the Afternoon".

When Hemingway saw Eastman, he bashed him over the head with a copy of the book and then wrestled him to the ground.

This sort of response is rare, but exchanges between authors and critics can get nasty, with reputations maligned and genuine talents belittled. The worst sort of reviewers are those who make personal attacks on authors, usually a sign of envy coupled with malice. Thomas Carlyle called Emerson "a hoary-headed and toothless baboon" and wrote of Charles Lamb: "a more pitiful, rickety, gasping, staggering Tomfool I do not know." But we still read and enjoy Lamb and Emerson; who reads Carlyle?

Of Walt Whitman, one reviewer said: "Whitman is as unacquainted with art as a hog is with mathematics." Swift was accused of having a diseased mind" and Henry James was called an "idiot and a Boston idiot to boot, than which there is nothing lower in the world." Their critics have long been forgotten, but just occasionally an author turns critic with equal virulence. There was the classic Dorothy Parker review which read: "This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."

When brickbats are flung at an author, it is usually a sign that he is successful, that he has reached the top. No one received more abuse than Shakespeare. Hamlet was described by Voltaire as "the work of a drunken savage", and Pepys said A Midsummer Night’s Dream was "the most insipid, ridiculous play that I ever saw in my life. "Macaulay sneered at Wordsworth’s "crazy mystical metaphysics, the endless wilderness of dull flat, prosaic twaddle" — a description that would aptly describe Macaulay’s own meandering and monotonous style.

Should authors really have to put up with this sort of thing? Politicians do, and actors and sportsmen, so why not writers? As E.M. Forster once said: "No author has the right to whine. He was not obliged to be an author. He invited publicity, and he must take the publicity that comes along."

Of course, some reviewers do go a little too far, like the one who once referred to "that well-known typist Harold Robbins." That was a remark truly deserving a bash over the head — on behalf of typists everywhere!

Let’s leave the authors and critics to their battles, and concentrate instead on the physical aspect of writing.

Amongst the current fraternity of writers, I must be that very rare person, an author who actually writes by hand.

Soon after the invention of the typewriter, most editors and publishers understandably refused to look at any manuscript that was handwritten. A few years earlier, when Dickens and Balzac had submitted their hefty manuscripts in longhand, no one had objected. Had their handwriting been awful, their manuscripts would still have been read. Fortunately for all concerned, these and most other famous writers took pains over their handwriting.

Both Dickens and Thackeray had good, clear, flourishing handwriting. Somerset Maugham had an upright, legible hand; Tagore, a fine flowing fluid. Churchill’s neat handwriting never wavered, even when he was under stress. I like the bold, clear, straightforward hand of Abraham Lincoln; it mirrors the man.

Not everyone had a beautiful hand. King Henry VIII had an untidy scrawl, but then, he was not a man of much refinement. Guy Fawkes, who tried to blow up the British Parliament, had a very shaky hand. With such a quiver, no wonder he failed in his attempt. Hitler’s signature is ugly, as you might expect. And Napoleon’s doesn’t seem to know when to stop; how like the man!

When I think of the great 18th and 19th century writers, scratching away with their quill pens, filling hundreds of pages every month, I am amazed that their handwriting did not deteriorate into the sort of hieroglyphics that makes up the average doctor’s prescription today. They knew how to write legibly, if only for the sake of the type-setters.

And it wasn’t only authors who wrote with an elegant hand. Most of our parents and grandparents had distinctive styles of their own. I still have my father’s last letter, written to me when I was at boarding-school over 50 years ago. He used large, beautifully formed letters, and his thoughts seemed to have the same flow and clarity as his handwriting.

In his letter, he advises nine-year old Ruskin about his handwriting: "I wanted to write before about your writing, Ruskin... Sometimes I get letters from you in very small writing, as if you wanted to squeeze everything into one sheet of paper. It is not good for you or for your eyes, to get into the habit of writing so small.... Try and form a larger style of handwriting. Use more paper if necessary!"

I did my best to follow his advice, and I’m glad to report that after a lifetime of penmanship, my handwriting is still readable.

Word-processors and computers are the in-thing now, and I do not object to these electronic aids any more than I objected to the mechanical aid of my old Olympia typewriter, which is still going strong after 40 years; the latter is at least impervious to power failures. Although I still do most of my writing in longhand, I follow the conventions by typing a second draft. But I would not enjoy my writing if I had to do it straight on to a machine. It isn’t just the pleasure of writing by hand, although thatpart of it.

Sometimes I like taking my notebooks or writing-pads to odd places. This particular piece is being composed on the steep hillside above the cottage in which I live. Part of the reason for sitting here is that there is a new postman on the route, and I donwant him to miss me. For a freelance writer, the postman is almost as important as his publisher. He brings me editorial acceptances or rejections, the occasional cheque, and sometimes a nice letter from a reader. I could, of course, sit here doing nothing, but as I have pencil and paper with me, and feel like using them, I shall write until the postman comes and maybe after he has gone, too.

Typewriters and computers were not designed with steep mountain slopes in mind. On one occasion last month, I did carry my typewriter into the garden, and I am still trying to extricate an acorn from under the keys, while the roller seems permanently stained from some fine yellow pollen-dust from the deodar trees. But armed with pencils and paper, I can lie on the grass and write for hours. Provided there are a couple of cheese-and-tomato sandwiches within easy reach.