BOOKS AND AUTHORS

 

Dr. D. ANJANEYULU

 

            “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train” – quips one of Oscar Wilde’s characters (possibly from The Importance of Being Earnest.)

 

            If one’s own diary, obviously covering familiar ground to its author, were to be looked forward to as a repository of something sensational, there must be good reason for it. Even in the “Wildest” of witticisms, one of them, in a prosaic manner of speaking, is that facts are sometimes stranger than fiction. Characters from real life could be more exciting than the products of a writer’s imagination and fancy.

 

            One need not feel apologetic in the least, if one has a well-­considered preference for biography and autobiography over novel and drama. Biography is more than a story and autobio­graphy is, of course, more than a diary. For both of them involve the art of writing–covering the process of interpretation as well as of presentation of selection as well as of condensation, of emphasis no less than of elimination. That was probably why it is said (by Thomas Carlyle) that it is as difficult to write a good life as to live one. Perhaps more! How difficult and challenging the task could be was realised by none more than that supreme artist in the field, Lytton Strachey. He it was who said that a conglomeration of events and dates, of letters and statements and other data would not make a biography any more than a collection of eggs, peppers salt and spices would make an omelette.

 

            A good biographical work should be readable as well as reliable. It should have a perspective and a sense of proportion. In fact, it should partake of all the basic ingredients of the literary art, in addition to the overall limitation in the choice of its material. It can be written with fidelity and imagination, though the author can hardly afford to rely on his imagination for his facts. He has to walk the razor’s edge of faithfulnes and propriety and reach the goal of vision and design.

 

            Michael Holroyd, the biographer of Lytton Strachey, and Augustus John (and who is now working on a definitive biography of Bernard Shaw), who visited India recently, gave us to understand that modern British biography had proved quite popular. And not undeservedly either. Quite a few of the biographies – literary, political and other – are marked by style as well as substance. So are the autobiographies. One of the most outstanding of them is “A Personal History” by Prof. A. G. P. Taylor (published by Hamish Hamilton).

 

            Taylor is, perhaps, not only the most prolific but the best-known of living British historians dealing with modern Europe. He is original in his thinking and unconventional in his approach, as could be seen in his celebrated book, The Origins of the Second World War. It marked a refreshing departure from stereo-types like the devilish wickedness of Hitler and the shocked innocence of the Western allies – Britain and France. He has dozens of other substantial books to his credit, like the Habsburg Monarchy, The Struggle for Mastery in Europe (1848-1918) and studies of Bismark and Beaverbrook. He had also edited the spicy diaries and letters of Lloyd Geroge.

 

            Nor was he an historian of the common or garden variety. Manysided in his talents, he is also a popular journalist and a compelling T. V. personality, and a powerful public speaker, besides being an academic historian, who could draw more students than any of the other dons. What is more, be has been quite a controversial figure, who has never been in the good books of the Establishment – academic or political. That was known to be the main reason why he was passed over in the mid-’fifties for the Regins Professorship of Modern History at Oxford in favour of Hugh Trevor-Roper, by far his junior in experience and by no means his equal in merit. He has tended to be unconventional even in his personal life – with three marriages and a few love affairs to keep him talked about.

 

            Taylor’s candour and courage serve to make the story of his life of sustained interest to the reader. The Oxford Chair episode, as told by him, is extremely revealing, not to say shocking, to those having any illusions left about the academic values and standards of objectivity and fairplay in that reputed university’s mode of promotions and appointments. He lost the chance three times, for reasons unconnected with his academic merit, because of the powerful enemies in his own field. About one of them he writes:

 

            “J. C. Masterman, Provost of Worcester, an historian who never produced anything, was one, though in the most urbane way. By some strange chance, he was on the electoral board each time one of these chairs came up and each time his voice was against me. He disapproved of my political views and thought it wrong for a professor to appear on television. In his eyes, a professor should behave like a Bishop, or a headmaster, though both Bishops and headnusters, appear on T. V. now-a-days. Also as he told me years later, he was anxious to push his protege, Trevor-Roper: “I thought Hugh would provide good conversation at dinner ...”

 

            Not a little amusing to realise that the decisive criterion for choosing a Regins Professor of Modern History at Oxford was his expected ability “to produce good conversation at dinner!” At another time, Taylor’s one-time senior and tong-time friend, Lewis Namier, behaved no better than Masterman. “Unless you agree to give up TV and the Sunday Express, I must recommend Trevor-Roper” was Namier’s last word. Needless to add that Taylor didn’t agree and, of course, he didn’t get the coveted job. But he had other compensations. He became a celebrity, besides making a modest fortune. He remains the most lucid of modern historians and the most articulate of popular communicators.

 

            About his marital life too, he writes with a marked freedom from inhibition. Of the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, on whom his first wife had a crush, he says: “I disliked Dylan Thomas intensely.” He was cruel. He was a sponger even when he had money of his own. He went out of his way to hurt those who helped him. Later he told me how he stole a drawerful of shirts when staying with Adlai Stevenson, ‘He, he, I expect he was surprised when he next wanted to dress up smart.’ Dylan had a soft wheedling voice, which many people found seductive. Men pressed money upon him and women their bodies. Dylan took both with open contempt. His greatest pleasure was to humiliate people....”

 

            Lots of other characters flit across the vierd pages of Taylor’s narrative – of which two deserve special mention: Michael Polaneji, the Yugoslav diplomat, and Lord Beaverbrook, his closest friend and most generous benefactor.

 

            Newspaper editors like political leaders and social activists are likely to lead eventful lives, some of them at least. They can certainly watch the passing scenes of public life from a ring­side seat. In England, perhaps even the English-speaking world, you can hardly think of a more prestigious newspaper than The Times, London. It has been the aspiration of every British journalist to edit it and the ambition of every press baron to own it. Wickham Steed, Geoffrey Dawson, William Haley and Rees Mogg were among its recent editors; while Northcliffe, the Astors and Lord Thompson were among its proprietors.

 

            Harold Evans, who became its editor, when the Australian millionaire Rupert Murdoch took it over some years ago, is a journalist known for his courage, enterprise and public spirit. When we remember that Murdoch is a man with a mind of his own, and a conviction that he who pays the piper calls the tune, it would not be difficult to see what was in store for the editor, all the assurances in editorial independence notwithstanding. Murdoch is a Tory in politics whose idols are President Reagan and Prime Minister Thatcher. Or so, he seems to have persu­aded himself and his paper, while his editor, an equally strong man with ideas of his own, was in no mood to be hustled and pushed about. The clash of wills led to an inevitable parting of ways. But Evans was not ready to oblige Murdoch by quitting sooner than was provided for in the contract.

 

            A piquant situation including a palace revolution, with all the familiar elements like intrigue and betrayal, was created before the recalcitrant editor could be eased out. The proprietor was aided and abetted in this hatchet operation by the editor’s slippery Deputy, Douglas-Hume, waiting in the wings, and only too ready to play the willing tool of the boss. The exciting story of rolling heads and dangerous politics of Fleet Street is told by its prize victim, Harold Evans in his Good Times, Bad Times. Bad times for him, but he seems to have taken them all as part of the game.

 

            Among the newspaper editors of India during the last half a century, few could equal the professional longevity of the late Mr. M. Chalapathi Rau, who died last year. He was editor of National Herald for a continuous period of over thirty years. Longevity, however, was not the only point of his achieve­ment. Professional ability and personal integrity in equal measure, as also dedication to the cause and loyalty to Nehru were combined in him to mark him out as a rare type of journalist. As for the last mentioned quality, that is loyalty to Nehru, it was a source of weakness as well as of strength.

 

            M. C.’s reminiscences as a journalist, including his impressions of a wide variety of political leaders and others are incorporated in the book Journalism and Politics, posthumously published. This is about K. Ramakotiswara Rau, founder-editor of this quarterly:

 

            “I must place Ramakotiswara Rau as the first among Andhra journalists whom I knew, not because he ‘discovered’ me and gave me the first chance in literary journalism and then in political journalism, but because he was an excellent editor, not only in editing the high class journal Triveni at great cost but in editing it with a care and punctiliousness which I did not see anywhere else. He insisted on standards in accepting articles but he also showed courage in rejecting them apart from tawdry advertisements.”

 

            Those in the teaching line, be they professors or lecturers in university or college, have advantages denied to the others. The affection and esteem of successive generations of pupils, apart from the friendship of colleagues. Among those in Madras, Professor S. Ramaswami is not only one of the most learned but the liveliest. A popular and stimulating teacher of English, he retired a decade and a half ago as Chief Professor of English at Presidency College. Orthodox and unconventional in one, he always commanded attention, even admiration.

 

            On his seventieth birthday (in 1982), friends and admirers of Professor Ramaswamy presented him with a volume of critical essays on English literature, entitled The Hero as Critic. The title is apt in more senses than the one originally intended by Carlyle. The Professor is a hero to thousands of his pupils. He is also a critic rather than a creative writer with a flair for the spoken word. In the words of his old friend and classmate, the Rev. Fr. Lawrence Sundaram, “Whether in private debate or public discussion before an audience, his forthright manner and the compelling force of his eloquence win admiration, even when they do not command acceptance.”

 

            The volume (edited by Professors T. Prabbakar, M. S. Naga­rajan, K. S. Nagarajan) contains nearly thirty critical articles classified under three heads – General, Shakespeare and the Modern Age. In his thoughtful article on ‘Science and Poetic Sensibility’, Professor D. Narasimhaiah pleads for an Indian response to science. In the Shakespeare section, Prof. S. Nagarajan discusses Macaulay’s literary theory as applied to Shakespeare criticism. In the Modern Age section, lots of substantial essays by eminent teachers have been reprinted – Prof. K. Swaminathan’s tribute to Wordsworth, Norman Jaffares’s response to The Vicar of Wakefield, G. Wilson Knight’s interpretation of The Scholar Gipsy, Fr. Sundaram’s discussion of ‘Literature and Belief’ and Prof. V. V. John’s essay on the use of English, especially in India.

 

 

            Mr. K. R. Srinivasan, a veteran in the field of archaeology, whose strength of character and precise scholarship are familiar to colleagues, deserves to be better known to the world out­side. While in charge of the Temple Survey Project, Southern Region, he did pioneering work. A sensitive conversationist, he prepared a detailed report on the preservation of Borobudur in Indonesia. After retiring as Deputy Director-General of Archaeology, he was in charge of the Nagarjunakonda Excavation Project in 1968-’69.

 

            As a token of his services to archaeology, art and architecture for over half a century, Mr. Srinivasan’s friends have recently presented him with a substantial volume of 500 pages. Entitled “Srinidhih”, it seeks to present varying perspectives in Indian archaeology, art and culture. The festschrift, ably edited by a committee of experts, including Prof. K. V. Raman and Mr. N. S. Ramaswami, is well-produced, with a number of art plates, besides maps and line-drawings. Containing sixty-odd articles – on archaeology, architecture, iconography, sculpture, epigraphy, religion, history and culture, besides personalia, it is a must for the general reader interested in these subjects, no less than the academic specialist.

 

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