The Arnold Bennett Calendar
Date: 2021-03-27T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Calendars; Bennett; Arnold; 1867-1931 -- Quotations

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Title: The Arnold Bennett Calendar

Author: Arnold Bennett

Compiler: Frank C. Bennett

Release date: March 27, 2021 [eBook #64933]

Language: English

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ARNOLD BENNETT CALENDAR ***

The Arnold Bennett Calendar

BY ARNOLD BENNETT

NOVELS
The Old Wives’ Tale
Helen with the High Hand
The Matador of the Five Towns
The Book of Carlotta
Buried Alive
A Great Man
Leonora
Whom God Hath Joined
A Man from the North
Anna of the Five Towns
The Glimpse

POCKET PHILOSOPHIES
How to Live on 24 Hours A Day
The Human Machine
Literary Taste
Mental Efficiency

PLAYS
Cupid and Commonsense
What the Public Wants
Polite Farces
Milestones
The Honeymoon

MISCELLANEOUS
The Truth About an Author
The Feast of St. Friend

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK

The
Arnold Bennett
Calendar

Compiled By
Frank Bennett

New York
George H· Doran Company

COPYRIGHT, 1912
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
[W·D·O]
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A

Enoch Arnold Bennett was born at Hanley-in-the-Potteries (one of the “Five Towns” frequently appearing in his writings) on 27th May 1867. He was educated at the endowed Middle School, Newcastle-under-Lyme, and matriculated in the London University. From school he went into the office of his father, who practised as a solicitor at Hanley, and stayed with him until 1889, when he took a post in a solicitor’s office in London, which he held until 1893. In that year he abandoned the law finally to become assistant editor of Woman, and succeeded to the editorship in 1896. This post he resigned in 1900 to devote himself exclusively to literature. In the meantime several of his works had been issued, the first being “A Man from the North” (1898) and a handbook, “Journalism for Women,” followed in the next year by the publication of a volume of plays, “Polite Farces,” his first experiments in drama. Afterwards appeared in rapid succession nine other novels, two volumes of short stories, seven volumes of belles-lettres, and seven fantasias. Besides these he wrote two plays, “Cupid and Common-Sense,” produced by the Stage Society in 1908, and “What the Public Wants,” also produced by the Stage Society in 1909, and afterwards by Mr. Hawtrey at the New Royalty Theatre. Both these plays were subsequently staged in Glasgow, and by Miss Horniman’s Company. The most important of his publications include:—among novels, “Leonora,” “A Great Man,” “Sacred and Profane Love,” “Whom God Hath Joined——,” “The Old Wives’ Tale,” and “Clayhanger”; among the belles-lettres, “The Truth about an Author,” “Literary Taste,” “The Reasonable Life,” “The Human Machine,” and “How to Live on Twenty-Four Hours a Day” (the last four contributed originally to T. P.’s Weekly, and containing indications of Mr. Bennett’s theories of life); and in the short stories, “Tales of the Five Towns,” and “The Grim Smile of the Five Towns.” Mr. Bennett has very definite leanings towards Socialism, and, under a pseudonym, writes regularly for The New Age. He also contributes from time to time to the most important progressive weekly and monthly magazines.

F. C. B.

The Arnold Bennett Calendar

[9]

January

One

The individual who scoffs at New Year’s resolutions resembles the woman who says she doesn’t look under the bed at nights; the truth is not in him.

Two

To give pleasure is the highest end of any work of art, because the pleasure procured from any art is tonic, and transforms the life into which it enters.

Three

There are only two fundamental differences in the world—the difference between sex and sex, and the difference between youth and age.

Four

The only class of modern play in which it is possible to be both quite artistic and quite marketable, is the farce.

Five

To enjoy a work of imagination is no pastime, rather a sweet but fatiguing labour. After a play of Shakespeare or a Wagnerian opera repose is needed. Only a madman like Louis of Bavaria could demand Tristan twice in one night.

Six

Great books do not spring from something accidental in the great men who wrote them. They are the effluence of their very core, the expression of the life itself of the authors.

Seven

It is within the experience of everyone that when pleasure and pain reach a certain intensity they are indistinguishable.

Eight

One of the main obstacles to the cultivation of poetry in the average sensible man is an absurdly inflated notion of the ridiculous.

Nine

The crudest excitement of the imaginative faculty is to be preferred to a swinish preoccupation with the gross physical existence.

Ten

The brain is the diplomatist which arranges relations between our instinctive self and the universe, and it fulfils its mission when it provides for the maximum of freedom to the instincts with the minimum of friction.

Eleven

A woman who has beauty wants to frame it in beauty. The eye is a sensualist, and its appetites, once aroused, grow. A beautiful woman takes the same pleasure in the sight of another beautiful woman as a man does; only jealousy or fear prevents her from admitting the pleasure.

Twelve

The beginning of wise living lies in the control of the brain by the will.

Thirteen

To utter a jeremiad upon the decadence of taste, to declare that literature is going to the dogs because a fourth-rate novel has been called a masterpiece and has made someone’s fortune, would be absurd. I have a strong faith that taste is as good as ever it was, and that literature will continue on its way undisturbed.

Fourteen

There is a loveliness of so imperious, absolute, dazzling a kind that it banishes from the hearts of men all moral conceptions, all considerations of right and wrong, and leaves therein nothing but worship and desire.

Fifteen

When homage is reiterated, when the pleasure of obeying a command and satisfying a caprice is begged for, when roses are strewn, and even necks put down in the path, one forgets to be humble; one forgets that in meekness alone lies the sole good; one confuses deserts with the hazards of heredity.

Sixteen

There are men who are capable of loving a machine more deeply than they can love a woman. They are among the happiest men on earth.

Seventeen

The uncultivated reader is content to live wholly in and for the moment, sentence by sentence. Keep him amused and he will ask no more. You may delude him, you may withhold from him every single thing to which he is rightfully entitled, but he will not care. The more crude you are, the better will he be pleased.

Eighteen

It is only in the stress of fine ideas and emotions that a man may be truly said to live.

Nineteen

Oh, innocence! Oh, divine ignorance! Oh, refusal! None knows your value save her who has bartered you! And herein is the woman’s tragedy.

Twenty

To extract from the brain, at will and by will, concentration on a given idea for even so short a period as half an hour is an exceedingly difficult feat—and a fatiguing! It needs perseverance.

Twenty-one

A merely literary crudity will affect the large public neither one way nor the other, since the large public is entirely uninterested in questions of style; but all other crudities appeal strongly to that public.

Twenty-two

“Cupid and Commonsense” produced.

Everyone who has driven a motor-car knows the uncanny sensation that ensues when for the first time in your life you engage the clutch, and the Thing beneath you begins mysteriously and formidably to move. It is at once an astonishment, a terror, and a delight. I felt like that as I watched the progress of my first play.

Twenty-three

Can you see the sun over the viaduct at Loughborough Junction of a morning, and catch its rays in the Thames off Dewar’s whisky monument, and not shake with the joy of life? If so, you and Shakespeare are not yet in communication.

Twenty-four

Adults have never yet invented any institution, festival or diversion specially for the benefit of children. The egoism of adults makes such an effort impossible, and the ingenuity and pliancy of children make it unnecessary. The pantomime, for example, which is now pre-eminently a diversion for children, was created by adults for the amusement of adults. Children have merely accepted it and appropriated it. Children, being helpless, are of course fatalists and imitators. They take what comes, and they do the best they can with it. And when they have made something their own that was adult, they stick to it like leeches.

Twenty-five

The living speak of the uncanniness of the dead. It does not occur to them that manifestations of human existence may be uncanny to the dead.

Twenty-six

There is no royal road to the control of the brain. There is no patent dodge about it, and no complicated function which a plain person may not comprehend. It is simply a question of: “I will, I will, and I will.”

Twenty-seven

I knew that when love lasted, the credit of the survival was due far more often to the woman than to the man. The woman must husband herself, dole herself out, economise herself so that she might be splendidly wasteful when need was. The woman must plan, scheme, devise, invent, reconnoitre, take precautions; and do all this sincerely and lovingly in the name and honour of love. A passion for her is a campaign; and her deadliest enemy is satiety.

Twenty-eight

Efficient living, living up to one’s best standard, getting the last ounce of power out of the machine with the minimum of friction: these things depend on the disciplined and vigorous condition of the brain.

Twenty-nine

In the world of books, as in every other world, one-half does not know how the other half lives. In literary matters the literate seldom suspect the extreme simplicity and naïveté of the illiterate. They wilfully blind themselves to it; they are afraid to face it.

Thirty

The mysteriousness of woman vanishes the instant you brutally face it. Boys and ageing celibates are obsessed by the mysteriousness of woman. The obsession is a sign either of immaturity or of morbidity. The mysteriousness of woman,—take her, and see then if she is mysterious!

Thirty-one

Train journeys have too often been sorrowful for me, so much so that the conception itself of a train, crawling over the country like a snake, or flying across it like a winged monster, fills me with melancholy. Trains loaded with human parcels of sadness and illusion and brief joy, wandering about, crossing, and occasionally colliding in the murk of existence; trains warmed and lighted in winter; trains open to catch the air of your own passage in summer; night-trains that pierce the night with your yellow, glaring eyes, and waken mysterious villages, and leave the night behind and run into the dawn as into a station; trains that carry bread and meats for the human parcels, and pillows and fountains of fresh water; trains that sweep haughtily and wearily indifferent through the landscapes and the towns, sufficient unto yourselves, hasty, panting, formidable, and yet mournful entities: I have understood you in your arrogance and your pathos!

[19]

February

One

The ecstasy of longing is better than the assuaging of desire.

Two

As regards facts and ideas, the great mistake made by the average well-intentioned reader is that he is content with the names of things instead of occupying himself with the causes of things.

Three

Time and increasing knowledge of the true facts have dissipated for me the melancholy and affecting legend of literary talent going a-begging because of the indifference of publishers. O young author of talent, would that I could find you and make you understand how the publisher yearns for you as the lover for his love.

Four

The brain can be disciplined by learning the habit of obedience. And it can learn the habit of obedience by the practice of concentration.

Five

You can attach any ideas you please to music, but music, if you will forgive me saying so, rejects them all equally. Art has to do with emotions not with ideas, and the great defect of literature is that it can only express emotions by means of ideas. What makes music the greatest of all the arts is that it can express emotions without ideas. Literature can appeal to the soul only through the mind. Music goes direct. Its language is a language which the soul alone understands, but which the soul can never translate.

Six

If a man does not spend at least as much time in actively and definitely thinking about what he has read as he spent in reading, he is simply insulting his author.

Seven

He was of that small and lonely minority of men who never know ambition, ardour, zeal, yearning, tears; whose convenient desires are capable of immediate satisfaction; of whom it may be said that they purchase a second-rate happiness cheap at the price of an incapacity for deep feeling.

Eight

No man, except a greater author, can teach an author his business.

Nine

Size is the quality which most strongly and surely appeals to the imagination of the multitude. Of all modern monuments the Eiffel Tower and the Big Wheel have aroused the most genuine curiosity and admiration: they are the biggest. As with this monstrous architecture of metals, so with the fabric of ideas and emotions: the attention of the whole crowd can only be caught by an audacious hugeness, an eye-smiting enormity of dimensions so gross as to be nearly physical.

Ten

Genius apart, woman is usually more touchingly lyrical than man in the yearning for the ideal.

Eleven

I had fast in my heart’s keeping the new truth that in the body, and the instincts of the body, there should be no shame but rather a frank, joyous pride.

Twelve

A person is idle because his thoughts dwell habitually on the instant pleasures of idleness.

Thirteen

By love I mean a noble and sensuous passion, absorbing the energies of the soul, fulfilling destiny, and reducing all that has gone before it to the level of a mere prelude.

Fourteen

For myself, I have never valued work for its own sake, and I never shall.

Fifteen

Having once decided to achieve a certain task, achieve it at all costs of tedium and distaste. The gain in self-confidence of having accomplished a tiresome labour is immense.

Sixteen

All who look into their experience will admit that the failure to replace old habits by new ones is due to the fact that at the critical moment the brain does not remember; it simply forgets.

Seventeen

Many writers, and many clever writers, use the art of literature merely to gain an end which is connected with some different art, or with no art. Such a writer, finding himself burdened with a message prophetic, didactic, or reforming, discovers suddenly that he has the imaginative gift, and makes his imagination the servant of his intellect, or of emotions which are not artistic emotions.

Eighteen

I only value mental work for the more full and more intense consciousness of being alive which it gives me.

Nineteen

Whatever the vagaries of human nature, the true philosopher is never surprised by them. And one vagary is not more strange than another.

Twenty

You can control nothing but your own mind. Even your two-year-old babe may defy you by the instinctive force of its personality.

Twenty-one

To take the common grey things which people know and despise, and, without tampering, to disclose their epic significance, their essential grandeur—that is realism as distinguished from idealism or romanticism. It may scarcely be, it probably is not, the greatest art of all; but it is art precious and indisputable.

Twenty-two

There are few mental exercises better than learning great poetry or prose by heart.

Twenty-three

The British public will never be convinced by argument. But two drops of perspiration on the cheeks of a nice-looking girl with a torn skirt and a crushed hat will make it tremble for the safety of its ideals, and twenty drops will persuade it to sign anything for the restoration of decency. You surely don’t suppose that argument will be of any use!

Twenty-four

Some people have a gift of conjuring with conversations. They are almost always frankly and openly interested in themselves. You may seek to foil them; you may even violently wrench the conversation into other directions. But every effort will be useless. They will beat you. You had much better lean back in your chair and enjoy their legerdemain.

Twenty-five

The voice of this spirit says that it has lost every illusion about life, and that life seems only the more beautiful. It says that activity is but another form of contemplation, pain but another form of pleasure, power but another form of weakness, hate but another form of love, and that it is well these things should be so. It says there is no end, only a means; and that the highest joy is to suffer, and the supreme wisdom is to exist. If you will but live, it cries, that grave but yet passionate voice—if you will but live! Were there a heaven, and you reached it, you could do no more than live. The true heaven is here where you live, where you strive and lose, and weep and laugh. And the true hell is here, where you forget to live, and blind your eyes to the omnipresent and terrible beauty of existence.

Twenty-six

The most important preliminary to self-development is the faculty of concentrating at will.

Twenty-seven

Diaries, save in experienced hands, are apt to get themselves done with the very minimum of mental effort. They also tend to an exaggeration of egotism, and if they are left lying about they tend to strife.

Twenty-eight

The English world of home is one of the most perfectly organized microcosms on this planet, not excepting the Indian purdah. The product of centuries of culture, it is regarded, not too absurdly, as the fairest flower of Christian civilisation. It exists chiefly, of course, for women, but it could never have been what it is had not men bound themselves to respect the code which they made for it. It is the fountain of refinement and of consolation, the nursery of affection. It has the peculiar faculty of nourishing itself, for it implicitly denies the existence of anything beyond its doorstep, save the constitution, a bishop, a rector, the seaside, Switzerland, and the respectful poor.

Twenty-nine

I have always been a bookman. From adolescence books have been one of my passions. Books not merely—and perhaps not chiefly—as vehicles of learning or knowledge, but books as books, books as entities, books as beautiful things, books as historical antiquities, books as repositories of memorable associations. Questions of type, ink, paper, margins, watermarks, paginations, bindings, are capable of really agitating me.

[29]

March

One

It is characteristic of the literary artist with a genuine vocation that his large desire is, not to express in words any particular thing, but to express himself, the sum of his sensations. He feels the vague, disturbing impulse to write long before he has chosen his first subject from the thousands of subjects which present themselves, and which in the future he is destined to attack.

Two

In the mental world what counts is not numbers but co-ordination.

Three

In England, nearly all the most interesting people are social reformers: and the only circles of society in which you are not bored, in which there is real conversation, are the circles of social reform.

Four

Anthology construction is one of the pleasantest hobbies that a person who is not mad about golf and bridge—that is to say, a thinking person—can possibly have.

Five

That part of my life which I conduct by myself, without reference—or at any rate without direct reference—to others, I can usually manage in such a way that the gods do not positively weep at the spectacle thereof.

Six

It’s quite impossible to believe that a man is a genius, if you’ve been to school with him, or even known his father.

Seven

It is the privilege of only the greatest painters not to put letters on the corners of their pictures in order to keep other painters from taking the credit for them afterwards.

Eight

Your own mind has the power to transmute every external phenomenon to its own purposes.

Nine

Anything would be a success in London on Sunday night. People are so grateful.

Ten

The one cheerful item in a universe of stony facts is that no one can harm anybody except himself.

Eleven

The eye that has learned to look life full in the face without a quiver of the lid should find nothing repulsive. Everything that is, is the ordered and calculable result of environment. Nothing can be abhorrent, nothing blameworthy, nothing contrary to nature. Can we exceed nature? In the presence of the primeval and ever-continuing forces of nature, can we maintain our fantastic conceptions of sin and of justice? We are, and that is all we should dare to say.

Twelve

The art of life, the art of extracting all its power from the human machine, does not lie chiefly in processes of bookish-culture, nor in contemplations of the beauty and majesty of existence. It lies chiefly in keeping the peace, the whole peace, and nothing but the peace, with those with whom one is “thrown.”

Thirteen

We have our ideals now, but when they are mentioned we feel self-conscious and uncomfortable, like a school-boy caught praying.

Fourteen

After the crest of the wave the trough—it must be so; but how profound the instinct which complains!

Fifteen

The performance of some pianists is so wonderful that it seems as if they were crossing Niagara on a tight-rope, and you tremble lest they should fall off.

Sixteen

The secret of calm cheerfulness is kindliness; no person can be consistently cheerful and calm who does not consistently think kind thoughts.

Seventeen

It is indubitable that a large amount of what is known as self-improvement is simply self-indulgence—a form of pleasure which only incidentally improves a particular part of the human machine, and even that part to the neglect of far more important parts.

Eighteen

The average man has this in common with the most exceptional genius, that his career in its main contours is governed by his instincts.

Nineteen

The most beautiful things, and the most vital things, and the most lasting things are often mysterious and inexplicable and sudden.

Twenty

An accurate knowledge of any subject, coupled with a carefully nurtured sense of the relativity of that subject to other subjects, implies an enormous self-development.

Twenty-one

The great artist may force you to laugh, or to wipe away a tear, but he accomplishes these minor feats by the way. What he mainly does is to see for you. If, in presenting a scene, he does not disclose aspects of it which you would not have observed for yourself, then he falls short of success. In a physical and psychical sense power is visual, the power of an eye seeing things always afresh, virginally as though on the very morn of creation.

Twenty-two

It is well, when one is judging a friend, to remember that he is judging you with the same god-like and superior impartiality.

Twenty-three

He who speaks, speaks twice. His words convey his thoughts, and his tone conveys his mental attitude towards the person spoken to.

Twenty-four

The man who loses his temper often thinks he is doing something rather fine and majestic. On the contrary, so far is this from being the fact, he is merely making an ass of himself.

Twenty-five

The female sex is prone to be inaccurate and careless of apparently trivial detail, because this is the general tendency of mankind. In men destined for a business or a profession, the proclivity is harshly discouraged at an early stage. In women, who usually are not destined for anything whatever, it enjoys a merry life, and often refuses to be improved out of existence when the sudden need arises. No one by taking thought can deracinate the mental habits of, say, twenty years.

Twenty-six

Kindliness of heart is not the greatest of human qualities—and its general effect on the progress of the world is not entirely beneficent—but it is the greatest of human qualities in friendship.

Twenty-seven

There is a certain satisfaction in hopelessness amid the extreme of misery. You press it to you as the martyr clutched the burning fagot. You enjoy it. You savour, piquantly, your woe, your shame, your abjectness, the failure of your philosophy. You celebrate the perdition of the man in you. You want to talk about it brazenly; even to exaggerate it, and to swagger over it.

Twenty-eight

The great public is no fool. It is huge and simple and slow in mental processes, like a good-humoured giant, easy to please and grateful for diversion. But it has a keen sense of its own dignity; it will not be trifled with; it resents for ever the tongue in the cheek.

Twenty-nine

The beauty of horses, timid creatures, sensitive and graceful and irrational as young girls, is a thing apart; and what is strange is that their vast strength does not seem incongruous with it. To be above that proud and lovely organism, listening, apprehensive, palpitating, nervous far beyond the human, to feel one’s self almost part of it by intimate contact, to yield to it, and make it yield, to draw from it into one’s self some of its exultant vitality—in a word, to ride—I can comprehend a fine enthusiasm for that.

Thirty

The respectable portion of the male sex in England may be divided into two classes, according to its method and manner of complete immersion in water. One class, the more dashing, dashes into a cold tub every morning. Another, the more cleanly, sedately takes a warm bath every Saturday night. There can be no doubt that the former class lends tone and distinction to the country, but the latter is the nation’s backbone.

Thirty-one

Although you may easily practise upon the credulity of a child in matters of fact, you cannot cheat his moral and social judgment. He will add you up, and he will add anybody up, and he will estimate conduct, upon principles of his own and in a manner terribly impartial. Parents have no sterner nor more discerning critics than their own children.

[39]

April

One

A person’s character is, and can be, nothing else but the total result of his habits of thought.

Two

Beware of hope, and beware of ambition! Each is excellently tonic, like German competition, in moderation, but all of you are suffering from self-indulgence in the first, and very many of you are ruining your constitutions with the second.

Three

As a matter of fact, people “indulge” in remorse; it is a somewhat vicious form of spiritual pleasure.

Four

When a thing is thoroughly well done it often has the air of being a miracle.

Five

After all the shattering discoveries of science and conclusions of philosophy, mankind has still to live with dignity amid hostile nature, and in the presence of an unknowable power, and mankind can only succeed in this tremendous feat by the exercise of faith and of that mutual goodwill which is based in sincerity and charity.

Six

All the days that are to come will more or less resemble the present day, until you die.

Seven

In literature, when nine hundred and ninety-nine souls ignore you, but the thousandth buys your work, or at least borrows it—that is called enormous popularity.

Eight

If life is not a continual denial of the past, then it is nothing.

Nine

The profoundest belief of the average man is that virtue ought never to be its own reward. Shake that belief and you commit a cardinal sin; you disturb his mental quietude.

Ten

It is notorious that the smaller the community, and the more completely it is self-contained, the deeper will be its preoccupation with its own trifling affairs.

Eleven

To my mind, most societies with a moral aim are merely clumsy machines for doing simple jobs with the maximum of friction, expense and inefficiency. I should define the majority of these societies as a group of persons each of whom expects the others to do something very wonderful.

Twelve

There is nothing like a sleepless couch for a clear vision of one’s environment.

Thirteen

The supreme muddlers of living are often people of quite remarkable intellectual faculty, with a quite remarkable gift of being wise for others.

Fourteen

Our leading advertisers have richly proved that the public will believe anything if they are told of it often enough.

Fifteen

Here’s a secret. No writer likes writing, at least not one in a hundred, and the exception, ten to one, is a howling mediocrity. That’s a fact. But all the same, they’re miserable if they don’t write.

Sixteen

The first and noblest aim of imaginative literature is not either to tickle or to stab the sensibilities, but to render a coherent view of life’s apparent incoherence, to give shape to the amorphous, to discover beauty which was hidden, to reveal essential truth.

Seventeen

There is a theory that a great public can appreciate a great novel, that the highest modern expression of literary art need not appeal in vain to the average reader. And I believe this to be true—provided that such a novel is written with intent, and with a full knowledge of the peculiar conditions to be satisfied; I believe that a novel could be written which would unite in a mild ecstasy of praise the two extremes—the most inclusive majority and the most exclusive minority.

Eighteen

“Give us more brains, Lord!” ejaculated a great writer. Personally, I think he would have been wiser if he had asked first for the power to keep in order such brains as we have.

Nineteen

Under the incentive of a woman’s eyes, of what tremendous efforts is a clever man not capable, and, deprived of it, to what depths of stagnation will he not descend!

Twenty

Elegance is a form of beauty. It not only enhances beauty, but it is the one thing which will console the eye for the absence of beauty.

Twenty-one

There are several ways of entering upon journalism. One is at once to found or purchase a paper, and thus achieve the editorial chair at a single step. This course is often adopted in novels, sometimes with the happiest results; and much less often in real life, where the end is invariably and inevitably painful.

Twenty-two

Existence rightly considered is a fair compromise between two instincts—the instinct of hoping one day to live, and the instinct to live here and now.

Twenty-three

Your own mind is a sacred enclosure into which nothing harmful can enter except by your permission.

Twenty-four

The average man is not half enough of an egotist. If egotism means a terrific interest in one’s self, egotism is absolutely essential to efficient living.

Twenty-five

Events have no significance except by virtue of the ideas from which they spring; the clash of events is the clash of ideas, and out of this clash the moral lesson inevitably emerges, whether we ask for it or no. Hence every great book is a great moral book, and there is a true and fine sense in which the average reader is justified in regarding art as the handmaid of morality.

Twenty-six

William Shakespeare’s Birthday

Shakespeare is “taught” in schools; that is to say, the Board of Education and all authorities pedagogic bind themselves together in a determined effort to make every boy in the land a lifelong enemy of Shakespeare. It is a mercy they don’t “teach” Blake.

Twenty-seven

Herbert Spencer’s Birthday

There are those who assert that Spencer was not a supreme genius! At any rate he taught me intellectual courage; he taught me that nothing is sacred that will not bear inspection; and I adore his memory.

Twenty-eight

Unite the colossal with the gaudy, and you will not achieve the sublime; but, unless you are deterred by humility and a sense of humour, you may persuade yourself that you have done so, and certainly most people will credit you with the genuine feat.

Twenty-nine

The average reader (like Goethe and Ste. Beuve) has his worse and his better self, and there are times when he will yield to the former; but on the whole his impulses are good. In every writer who earns his respect and enduring love there is some central righteousness, which is capable of being traced and explained, and at which it is impossible to sneer.

Thirty

Literature is the art of using words. This is not a platitude, but a truth of the first importance, a truth so profound that many writers never get down to it, and so subtle that many other writers who think they see it never in fact really comprehend it. The business of the author is with words. The practisers of other arts, such as music and painting, deal with ideas and emotions, but only the author has to deal with them by means of words. Words are his exclusive possession among creative artists and craftsmen. They are his raw material, his tools and instruments, his manufactured product, his alpha and omega. He may abound in ideas and emotions of the finest kind, but those ideas and emotions cannot be said to have an effective existence until they are expressed; they are limited to the extent of their expression; and their expression is limited to the extent of the author’s skill in the use of words. I smile when I hear people say, “If I could write, if I could only put down what I feel—!” Such people beg the whole question. The ability to write is the sole thing peculiar to literature—not the ability to think nor the ability to feel, but the ability to write, to utilise words.

[49]

May

One

Only a small minority of authors overwrite themselves. Most of the good and the tolerable ones do not write enough.

Two

The entire business of success is a gigantic tacit conspiracy on the part of the minority to deceive the majority.

Three

There are at least three women-journalists in Europe to-day whose influence is felt in Cabinets and places where they govern (proving that sex is not a bar to the proper understanding of la haute politique); whereas the man who dares to write on fashions does not exist.

Four

Habits are the very dickens to change.

Five

Not only is art a factor in life; it is a factor in all lives. The division of the world into two classes, one of which has a monopoly of what is called “artistic feeling,” is arbitrary and false. Everyone is an artist, more or less; that is to say, there is no person quite without that faculty of poetising, which, by seeing beauty, creates beauty, and which, when it is sufficiently powerful and articulate, constitutes the musical composer, the architect, the imaginative writer, the sculptor, and the painter.

Six

Is it nothing to you to learn to understand that the world is not a dull place?

Seven

In neither faith nor enthusiasm can a child compete with a convinced adult. No child could believe in anything as passionately as the modern millionaire believes in money, or as the modern social reformer believes in the virtue of Acts of Parliament.

Eight

Literature, instead of being an accessory, is the fundamental sine qua non of complete living.

Nine

No novelist, however ingenious, who does not write what he feels, and what, by its careful finish, approximately pleases himself, can continue to satisfy the average reader. He may hang for years precariously on the skirts of popularity, but in the end he will fall; he will be found out.

Ten

Only the fool and the very young expect happiness. The wise merely hope to be interested, at least not to be bored, in their passage through this world. Nothing is so interesting as love and grief, and the one involves the other.

Eleven

One of the commonest characteristics of the successful man is his idleness, his immense capacity for wasting time.

Twelve

People who regard literary taste simply as an accomplishment, and literature simply as a distraction, will never truly succeed, either in acquiring the accomplishment or in using it half-acquired as a distraction.

Thirteen

The finest souls have their reactions, their rebellions against wise reason.

Fourteen

My theory is that politeness, instead of decreasing with intimacy—should increase! And when I say “Politeness” I mean common, superficial politeness. I don’t mean the deep-down sort of thing that you can only detect with a divining-rod.

Fifteen

Marcus Aurelius is assuredly regarded as the greatest of writers in the human machine school, and not to read him daily is considered by many to be a bad habit.

Sixteen

Part of the secret of Balzac’s unique power over the reader is the unique tendency of his own interest in the thing to be told.

Seventeen

“Anna of the Five Towns” finished 1901

The art of fiction is the art of telling a story. This statement is not so obvious and unnecessary as it may seem. Most beginners and many “practised hands” attend to all kinds of things before they attend to the story. With them the art of fiction is the art of describing character or landscape, of getting “atmosphere,” and of being humorous, pathetic, flippant, or terrifying; while the story is a perfunctory excuse for these feats. They are so busy with the traditional paraphernalia of fiction, with the tricks of the craft, that what should be the principal business is reduced to a subsidiary task. They forget that character, landscape, atmosphere, humour, pathos, etc., are not ends in themselves, but only means toward an end.

Eighteen

How true it is that the human soul is solitary, that content is the only true riches, and that to be happy we must be good.

Nineteen

Men of letters who happen to have genius do not write for men of letters. They write, as Wagner was proud to say he composed, for the ordinary person.

Twenty

Great success never depends on the practice of the humbler virtues, though it may occasionally depend on the practice of the prouder vices.

Twenty-one

“I’ve been to the National Gallery twice, and, upon my word, I was almost the only person there! And it’s free, too! People don’t want picture-galleries. If they did, they’d go. Who ever saw a public-house empty, or Peter Robinson’s? And you have to pay there!”

Twenty-two

He who has not been “presented to the freedom” of literature has not wakened up out of his prenatal sleep. He is merely not born. He can’t see; he can’t hear; he can’t feel in any full sense. He can only eat his dinner.

Twenty-three

All the arts are a conventionalisation, an ordering of nature.

Twenty-four

The aim of literary study is not to amuse the hours of leisure; it is to awake oneself, it is to be alive, to intensify one’s capacity for pleasure, for sympathy, and for comprehension.

Twenty-five

Like every aging artist of genuine accomplishment, he knew—none better—that there is no satisfaction save the satisfaction of fatigue after honest endeavour. He knew—none better—that wealth and glory and fine clothes are naught, and that striving is all.

Twenty-six

Prepare to live by all means, but for Heaven’s sake do not forget to live.

Twenty-seven

My Birthday

Sometimes I suddenly halt and address myself: “You may be richer or you may be poorer; you may live in greater pomp and luxury, or in less. The point is, that you will always be, essentially, what you are now. You have no real satisfaction to look forward to except the satisfaction of continually inventing, fancying, imagining, scribbling. Say another thirty years of these emotional ingenuities, these interminable variations on the theme of beauty. Is it good enough?” And I answered: “Yes.” But who knows? Who can preclude the regrets of the dying couch?

Twenty-eight

The balanced sanity of a great mind makes impossible exaggeration, and, therefore, distortion.

Twenty-nine

No art that is not planned in form is worth consideration, and no life that is not planned in convention can ever be satisfactory.

Thirty

The value of restraint is seldom inculcated upon women. Indeed, its opposites—gush and a tendency to hysteria—are regarded, in many respectable quarters, as among the proper attributes of true womanliness; attributes to be artistically cultivated.

Thirty-one

There grows in the North Country a certain kind of youth of whom it may be said that he is born to be a Londoner. The metropolis, and everything that appertains to it, that comes down from it, that goes up into it, has for him an imperious fascination. Long before schooldays are over he learns to take a doleful pleasure in watching the exit of the London train from the railway station. He stands by the hot engine and envies the very stoker. Gazing curiously into the carriages he wonders that men and women, who in a few hours will be treading streets called Piccadilly and the Strand, can contemplate the immediate future with so much apparent calmness; some of them even have the audacity to look bored. He finds it difficult to keep from throwing himself in the guard’s van as it glides past him; and not until the last coach is a speck upon the distance does he turn away and, nodding absently to the ticket-clerk, who knows him well, go home to nurse a vague ambition and dream of town.

[59]

June

One

To cultivate and nourish a grievance when you have five hundred pounds in your pocket, in cash, is the most difficult thing in the world.

Two

The full beauty of an activity is never brought out until it is subjected to discipline and strict ordering and nice balancing.

Three

The unfading charm of classical music is that you never tire of it.

Four

The spirit of literature is unifying; it joins the candle and the star, and by the magic of an image shows that the beauty of the greater is in the less.

Five

If people, by merely wishing to do so, could regularly and seriously read, observe, write, and use every faculty and sense, there would be very little mental inefficiency.

Six

Laws and rules, forms and ceremonies, are good in themselves, from a merely æsthetic point of view, apart from their social value and necessity.

Seven

Fashionable women have a manner of sitting down quite different from that of ordinary women. They only touch the back of the chair at the top. They don’t loll but they only escape lolling by dint of gracefulness. It is an affair of curves, slants, descents, nicely calculated. They elaborately lead your eye downwards over gradually increasing expanses, and naturally you expect to see their feet—and you don’t see their feet. The thing is apt to be disturbing to unhabituated beholders.

Eight

There are moments in the working day of every novelist when he feels deeply that anything—road-mending, shop-walking, housebreaking—would be better than this eternal torture of the brain; but such moments pass.

Nine

During a long and varied career as a bachelor, I have noticed that marriage is usually the death of politeness between a man and a woman. I have noticed that the stronger the passion the weaker the manners.

Ten

My sense of security amid the collisions of existence lies in the firm consciousness that just as my body is the servant of my mind, so is my mind the servant of me.

Eleven

The fault of the epoch is the absence of meditativeness.

Twelve

People who don’t want to live, people who would sooner hibernate than feel intensely, will be wise to eschew literature.

Thirteen

No one is so sure of achieving the aims of the literary craftsman as the man who has something to say and wishes to say it simply and have done with it.

Fourteen

The mind can only be conquered by regular meditation, by deciding beforehand what direction its activity ought to take, and insisting that its activity take that direction; also by never leaving it idle, undirected, masterless, to play at random like a child in the streets after dark.

Fifteen

The enterprise of forming one’s literary taste is an agreeable one; if it is not agreeable it cannot succeed.

Sixteen

The attitude of the average decent person towards the classics of his own tongue is one of distrust—I had almost said, of fear.

Seventeen

Am I, a portion of the Infinite Force that existed billions of years ago, and which will exist billions of years hence, going to allow myself to be worried by any terrestrial physical or mental event? I am not.

Eighteen

There is not a successful inexpert author writing to-day who would not be more successful—who would not be better esteemed and in receipt of a larger income—if he had taken the trouble to become expert. Skill does count; skill is always worth its cost in time and labour.

Nineteen

It is easier to go down a hill than up, but the view is from the top.

Twenty

For me there is no supremacy in art. When fifty artists have contrived to be supreme, supremacy becomes impossible. Take a little song by Grieg. It is perfect, it is supreme. No one could be greater than Grieg was great when he wrote that song. The whole last act of The Twilight of the Gods is not greater than a little song of Grieg’s.

Twenty-one

We talked books. We just simply enumerated books without end, praising or damning them, and arranged authors in neat pews, like cattle in classes at an agricultural show. No pastime is more agreeable to people who have the book disease, and none more quickly fleets the hours, and none is more delightfully futile.

Twenty-two

The law of gravity is absurd and indefensible when you fall downstairs; but you obey it.

Twenty-three

It is difficult to make a reputation, but it is even more difficult seriously to mar a reputation once properly made—so faithful is the public.

Twenty-four

That which has cost a sacrifice is always endeared.

Twenty-five

If literary aspirants genuinely felt that literature was the art of using words, bad, slipshod writing—writing that stultifies the thought and emotion which it is designed to render effective—would soon be a thing of the past. For they would begin at the beginning as apprentices to all other arts are compelled to. The serious student of painting who began his apprenticeship by trying to paint a family group, would be regarded as a lunatic. But the literary aspirant who begins with a novel is precisely that sort of lunatic, and the fact that he sometimes gets himself into print does not in the least mitigate his lunacy.

Twenty-six

In spite of all the differences which we have invented, mankind is a fellowship of brothers, overshadowed by insoluble and fearful mysteries, and dependent upon mutual goodwill and trust for the happiness it may hope to achieve.

Twenty-seven

The brain is a servant, exterior to the central force of the Ego. If it is out of control, the reason is not that it is uncontrollable but merely that its discipline has been neglected.

Twenty-eight

I have been told by one of our greatest novelists that he constantly reads the dictionary, and that in his youth he read the dictionary through several times. I may recount the anecdote of Buckle, the historian of civilisation, who, when a certain dictionary was mentioned in terms of praise, said: “Yes, it is one of the few dictionaries I have read through with pleasure.”

Twenty-nine

The public may, and generally does, admire a great artist. But it begins (and sometimes ends) by admiring him for the wrong things. Shakespeare is more highly regarded for his philosophy than for his poetry, as the applause at any performance of “Hamlet” will prove. Balzac conquers by that untamed exuberance and those crude effects of melodrama which are the least valuable parts of him.

Thirty

You cannot divide literature into two elements and say: This is matter and that style. Further, the significance and the worth of literature are to be comprehended and assessed in the same way as the significance and the worth of any other phenomenon: by the exercise of common-sense. Common-sense will tell you that nobody, not even a genius, can be simultaneously vulgar and distinguished, or beautiful and ugly, or precise and vague, or tender and harsh. And common-sense will therefore tell you that to try to set up vital contradictions between matter and style is absurd. If you refer literature to the standards of life, common-sense will at once decide which quality should count heaviest in your esteem.

[69]

July

One

When one has really something to say, one does not use clichés; one cannot.

Two

The extinguishing of desire, with an accompanying indifference, be it high or low, is bad for youth.

Three

Do you suppose that if the fame of Shakespeare depended on the man in the street, it would survive a fortnight?

Four

Common-sense will solve any problem—any!—always provided it is employed simultaneously with politeness.

Five

London is the most provincial town in England—invariably vulgar, reactionary, hysterical, and behind the rest of the country. A nice sort of place England would be if we in the provinces had to copy London.

Six

Progress is the gradual result of the unending battle between human reason and human instinct, in which the former slowly but surely wins.

Seven

As an athlete trains, as an acrobat painfully tumbles in private, so must the literary aspirant write.

Eight

A classic is a work which gives pleasure to the minority which is intensely and permanently interested in literature.

Nine

It is said that geography makes history. In England, and especially in London, weather makes a good deal of history.

Ten

The one primary essential to literary taste is a hot interest in literature. If you have that, all the rest will come.

Eleven

In the Five Towns human nature is reported to be so hard that you can break stones on it. Yet sometimes it softens, and then we have one of our rare idylls of which we are very proud, while pretending not to be. The soft and delicate South would possibly not esteem highly our idylls, as such. Nevertheless they are our idylls, idyllic for us, and reminding us, by certain symptoms, that, though we never cry, there is concealed somewhere within our bodies a fount of happy tears.

Twelve

Reason is the basis of personal dignity.

Thirteen

It is by the passionate few that the renown of genius is kept alive from one generation to another.

Fourteen

We are all of us the same in essence; what separates us is merely differences in our respective stages of evolution.

Fifteen

It is well known that dignity will only bleed while you watch it. Avert your eyes and it instantly dries up.

Sixteen

All literature is the expression of feeling, of passion, of emotion, caused by a sensation of the interestingness of life.

Seventeen

Just as science is the development of common-sense, so is literature the development of common daily speech.

Eighteen

Every man who thinks clearly can write clearly, if not with grace and technical correctness.

Nineteen

It is important, if you wish ultimately to have a wide, catholic taste, to guard against the too common assumption that nothing modern will stand comparison with the classics.

Twenty

In the matter of its own special activities the brain is usually undisciplined and unreliable. We never know what it will do next.

Twenty-one

It’s the dodge of every begging-letter writer in England to mark his envelope “Private and Urgent.”

Twenty-two

Women grow old; women cease to learn; but men, never.

Twenty-three

In literature, but in nothing else, I am a propagandist; I am not content to keep my opinion and let others keep theirs. To have a worthless book in my house (save in the way of business), to know that any friend is enjoying it, actually distresses me. That book must go, the pretensions of that book must be exposed, if I am to enjoy peace of mind.

Twenty-four

I have often thought: If a son could look into a mother’s heart, what an eyeopener he would have!

Twenty-five

When a writer expresses his individuality and his mood with accuracy, lucidity, and sincerity, and with an absence of ugliness, then he achieves good style. Style—it cannot be too clearly understood—is not a certain splendid something which the writer adds to his meaning. It is in the meaning; it is that part of the meaning which specially reflects his individuality and his mood.

Twenty-six

Crime is simply a convenient monosyllable which we apply to what happens when the brain and the heart come into conflict and the brain is defeated.

Twenty-seven

Reflect that, as a rule, the people whom you have come to esteem communicated themselves to you gradually, that they did not begin the entertainment with fireworks.

Twenty-eight

To devise the contents of an issue, to plan them, to balance them; to sail with this wind and tack against that; to keep a sensitive, cool finger on the faintly beating pulse of the terrible many-headed patron; to walk in a straight line through a forest black as midnight; to guess the riddle of the circulation-book week by week; to know by instinct why Smiths sent in a repeat order, or why Simpkins’ was ten quires less; to keep one eye on the majestic march of the world, and the other on the vagaries of a bazaar-reporter who has forgotten the law of libel; these things, and seventy-seven others, are the real journalism. It is these things that make editors sardonic, grey, unapproachable.

Twenty-nine

I will be bold enough to say that quite seventy per cent. of ambition is never realised at all, and that ninety per cent. of all realised ambition is fruitless.

Thirty

To comply with the regulations ordained by English Society for the conduct of successful painters, he ought, first, to have taken the elementary precaution of being born in the United States. He ought, after having refused all interviews for months, to have ultimately granted a special one to a newspaper with the largest circulation. He ought to have returned to England, grown a mane and a tufted tail, and become the king of beasts; or at least to have made a speech at a banquet about the noble and purifying mission of art. Assuredly, he ought to have painted the portrait of his father or grandfather as an artisan to prove that he was not a snob.

Thirty-one

Women enjoy a reputation for slipshod style. They have earned it. A long and intimate familiarity with the manuscript of hundreds of women-writers, renowned and otherwise, has convinced me that not ten per cent. of them can be relied upon to satisfy even the most ordinary tests in spelling, grammar, and punctuation. I do not hesitate to say that if twenty of the most honoured and popular women-writers were asked to sit for an examination in these simple branches of learning, the general result (granted that a few might emerge with credit) would not only startle themselves, but would provide innocent amusement for the rest of mankind.

[79]

August

One

My theory is that if a really big concern is properly organized, the boss ought to be absolutely independent of all routine. He ought to be free for anything that turns up unexpectedly.

Two

Often I have felt that: “I know enough, I feel enough. If my future is as long as my past, I shall still not be able to put down the tenth part of what I have already acquired.”

Three

In journalism, as probably in no other profession, success depends wholly upon the loyal co-operation, the perfect reliability, of a number of people—some great, some small, but none irresponsible.

Four

The significance and the worth of literature are to be comprehended and assessed in the same way as the significance and the worth of any other phenomenon: by the exercise of common-sense.

Five

All wrong-doing is done in the sincere belief that it is the best thing to do.

Six

There is always a mental inferior handy, just as there is always a being more unhappy than we are.

Seven

Often have I said inwardly: “World, when I talk with you, dine with you, wrangle with you, love you, and hate you, I condescend.” Every artist has said that. People call it conceit; people may call it what they please.

Eight

The artistic pleasures of an uncultivated mind are generally violent.

Nine

Literature cannot be said to have served its true purpose until it has been translated into the actual life of him who reads.

Ten

When you cannot express yourself, depend upon it that you have nothing precise to express.

Eleven

Monotony, solitude, are essential to the full activity of the artist. Just as a horse is seen best when coursing alone over a great plain, so the fierce and callous egotism of the artist comes to its perfection in a vast expanse of custom, leisure, and apparently vacuous reverie.

Twelve

There can be no doubt that the average man blames much more than he praises. His instinct is to blame. If he is satisfied he says nothing; if he is not, he most illogically kicks up a row.

Thirteen

We can no more spend all our waking hours in consciously striving towards higher things than we can dine exclusively off jam.

Fourteen

All spending is a matter of habit.

Fifteen

The views from Richmond Hill or Hindhead, or along Pall Mall at sunset, the smell of the earth, the taste of fruit and of kisses—these things are unaffected by the machinations of trusts and the hysteria of stock exchanges.

Sixteen

If there is one point common to all classics, it is the absence of exaggeration.

Seventeen

It is only people of small moral stature who have to stand on their dignity.

Eighteen

When you live two and a half miles from a railway you can cut a dash on an income which in London spells omnibus instead of cab. For myself, I have a profound belief in the efficacy of cutting a dash.

Nineteen

No one can write correctly without deliberately and laboriously learning how to write correctly. On the other hand, everyone can learn to write correctly who takes sufficient trouble. Correct writing is a mechanical accomplishment; it could be acquired by a stockbroker.

Twenty

An understanding appreciation of literature means an understanding appreciation of the world, and it means nothing else.

Twenty-one

Much ingenuity with a little money is vastly more profitable and amusing than much money without ingenuity.

Twenty-two

Nothing is easier than to explain an accomplished fact in a nice, agreeable, conventional way.

Twenty-three

Literature is the art of using words. This is not a platitude, but a truth of the first importance, a truth so profound that many writers never get down to it, and so subtle that many other writers who think they see it never in fact really comprehend it.

Twenty-four

In the choice of reading the individual must count; caprice must count, for caprice is often the truest index to the individuality.

Twenty-five

There is an infection in the air of London, a zymotic influence which is the mysterious cause of unnaturalness, pose, affectation, artificiality, moral neuritis, and satiety. One loses grasp of the essentials in an undue preoccupation with the vacuities which society has invented. The distractions are too multiform. One never gets a chance to talk common-sense with one’s soul.

Twenty-six

An early success is a snare. The inexperienced author takes too much for granted. Conceit overcomes him. He regards himself with an undue seriousness. He thinks that he is founded on granite for ever.

Twenty-seven

The splendid pertinacity and ingenuity of the American journalist in wringing copy out of any and every side of existence cannot fail to quicken the pulse of those who are accustomed to the soberer, narrower, sleepier ways of English newspapers. Fleet Street pretends to despise and contemn American methods, yet a gradual Americanising of the English press is always taking place, with results on the whole admirable.

Twenty-eight

Stand defiantly on your own feet, and do not excuse yourself to yourself.

Twenty-nine

This is a matter of daily observation: that people are frantically engaged in attempting to get hold of things which, by universal experience, are hideously disappointing to those who have obtained possession of them.

Thirty

It is a current impression that style is something apart from, something foreign to, matter—a beautiful robe which, once it is found, may be used to clothe the nudity of matter. Young writers wander forth searching for style, as one searches for that which is hidden. They might employ themselves as profitably in looking for the noses on their faces. For style is personal, as much a portion of one’s self as the voice. It is within, not without; it needs only to be elicited, brought to light.

Thirty-one

When I had been in London a decade, I stood aside from myself and reviewed my situation with the god-like and detached impartiality of a trained artistic observer. And what I saw was a young man who pre-eminently knew his way about, and who was apt to be rather too complacent over this fact; a young man with some brilliance but far more shrewdness; a young man with a highly developed faculty for making a little go a long way; a young man who was accustomed to be listened to when he thought fit to speak, and who was decidedly more inclined to settle questions than to raise them.

[89]

September

One

It is of no use beginning to air one’s views until one has collected an audience.

Two

A man whom fate had pitched into a canal might accomplish miracles in the way of rendering himself amphibian: he might stagger the world by the spectacle of his philosophy under amazing difficulties; people might pay sixpence a head to come and see him; but he would be less of a nincompoop if he climbed out and arranged to live definitely on the bank.

Three

The contemplation of hills is uplifting to the soul; it leads to inspiration and induces nobility of character.

Four

Plot is the primary thing in fiction. Only a very clever craftsman can manipulate a feeble plot so as to make it even passably interesting. Whereas, the clumsiest bungler in narration cannot altogether spoil a really sound plot.

Five

It cannot be too clearly understood that the professional author, the man who depends entirely on his pen for the continuance of breath, and whose income is at the mercy of an illness or a headache, is eternally compromising between glory and something more edible and warmer at nights. He labours, in the first place, for food, shelter, tailors, a woman, European travel, horses, stalls at the opera, good cigars, ambrosial evenings in restaurants; and he gives glory the best chance he can. I am not speaking of geniuses with a mania for posterity; I am speaking of human beings.

Six

The average man flourishes and finds his ease in an atmosphere of peaceful routine. Men destined for success flourish and find their ease in an atmosphere of collision and disturbance.

Seven

There are simply thousands of agreeable and good girls who can accomplish herring-bone, omelettes, and simultaneous equations in a breath, as it were. They are all over the kingdom, and may be seen in the streets and lanes thereof about half-past eight in the morning and again about five o’clock in the evening. But the fact is not generally known. Only the stern and base members of School Boards or Education Committees know it. And they are so used to marvels that they make nothing of them.

Eight

In the sea of literature every part communicates with every other part; there are no land-locked lakes.

Nine

With an obedient, disciplined brain a man may live always right up to the standard of his best moments.

Ten

A prig is a pompous fool who has gone out for a ceremonial walk, and, without knowing it, has lost an important part of his attire, namely, his sense of humour.

Eleven

If I have an aptitude for anything at all in letters, it is for criticism. Whenever I read a book of imagination, I am instantly filled with ideas concerning it; I form definite views about its merit or demerit, and, having formed them, I hold those views with strong conviction. Denial of them rouses me; I must thump the table in support of them; I must compel people to believe that what I say is true; I cannot argue without getting serious, in spite of myself.

Twelve

The great convenience of masterpieces is that they are so astonishingly lucid.

Thirteen

It is as well not to chatter too much about what one is doing, and not to betray a too-pained sadness at the spectacle of a whole world deliberately wasting so many hours out of every day, and therefore never really living. It will be found, ultimately, that in taking care of one’s self one has quite all one can do.

Fourteen

Think as well as read. I know people who read and read, and, for all the good it does them, they might just as well cut bread-and-butter. They take to reading as better men take to drink. They fly through the shires of literature on a motor-car, their sole object being motion. They will tell you how many books they have read in a year.

Fifteen

The mass could not, and never at any period of history did, appreciate fine art, but could and would appreciate and support passable deteriorations of fine art.

Sixteen

Honesty, in literature as in life, is the quality that counts first and counts last.

Seventeen

No author ever lived who could write a page without giving himself away.

Eighteen

To be one’s natural self is the most difficult thing in literature. To be one’s natural self in a drawing-room full of observant eyes is scarcely the gift of the simple debutant, but rather of the experienced diner-out. So in literature: it is not the expert but the unpractised beginner who is guilty of artificiality.

Nineteen

Much nonsense has been talked about the short story. It has been asserted that Englishmen cannot write artistic short stories, that the short story does not come naturally to the Anglo-Saxon. Whereas the truth is that nearly all the finest short-story writers in the world to-day are Englishmen, and some of the most wonderful short stories ever written have been written by Englishmen within the last twenty years.

Twenty

If a book really moves you to anger, the chances are that it is a good book.

Twenty-one

In the cultivation of the mind one of the most important factors is precisely the feeling of strain, of difficulty, of a task which one part of you is anxious to achieve and another part of you is anxious to shirk.

Twenty-two

The very greatest poetry can only be understood and savoured by people who have put themselves through a considerable mental discipline. To others it is an exasperating weariness.

Twenty-three

Samuel Johnson’s Birthday

Even Johnson’s Dictionary is packed with emotion.

Twenty-four

All blame, uttered or unexpressed, is wrong. I do not blame myself. I can explain myself to myself. I can invariably explain myself.

Twenty-five

When one has thoroughly got imbued into one’s head the leading truth that nothing happens without a cause, one grows not only large-minded, but large-hearted.

Twenty-six

If an editor knows not peace, he knows power. In Fleet Street, as in other streets, the population divides itself into those who want something and those who have something to bestow; those who are anxious to give a lunch, and those who deign occasionally to accept a lunch; those who have an axe to grind, and those who possess the grindstone.

Twenty-seven

Regard, for a moment, the average household in the light of a business organisation for lodging and feeding a group of individuals; contrast its lapses, makeshifts, delays, irregularities, continual excuses with the awful precision of a city office. Is it a matter for surprise that the young woman who is accustomed gaily to remark, “Only five minutes late this morning, father,” or “I quite forgot to order the coals, dear,” confident that a frown or a hard word will end the affair, should carry into business (be it never so grave) the laxities so long permitted her in the home?

Twenty-eight

This I know and affirm, that the average woman-journalist is the most loyal, earnest, and teachable person under the sun. I begin to feel sentimental when I think of her astounding earnestness, even in grasping the live coal of English syntax. Syntax, bane of writing-women, I have spent scores of ineffectual hours in trying to inoculate the ungrammatical sex against your terrors!

Twenty-nine

I have never refused work when the pay has been good.

Thirty

There is no logical answer to a guffaw.

[99]

October

One

A most curious and useful thing to realise is that one never knows the impression one is creating on other people.

Two

At seventy men begin to be separated from their fellow-creatures. At eighty they are like islets sticking out of a sea. At eighty-five, with their trembling and deliberate speech, they are the abstract voice of human wisdom. They gather wisdom with amazing rapidity in the latter years, and even their folly is wise then.

Three

In its essence all fiction is wildly improbable, and its fundamental improbability is masked by an observance of probability in details.

Four

Only reviewers have a prejudice against long novels.

Five

The most important of all perceptions is the continual perception of cause and effect—in other words, the perception of the continuous development of the universe—in still other words, the perception of the course of evolution.

Six

No reading of books will take the place of a daily, candid, honest examination of what one has recently done, and what one is about to do—of a steady looking at one’s self in the face (disconcerting though the sight may be).

Seven

The beauty of a classic is not at all apt to knock you down. It will steal over you, rather.

Eight

Self-respect is at the root of all purposefulness, and a failure in an enterprise deliberately planned deals a desperate wound at one’s self-respect.

Nine

A man may be a sub-editor, or even an assistant-editor, for half a lifetime, and yet remain ignorant of the true significance of journalism.

Ten

Happiness does not spring from the procuring of physical or mental pleasure, but from the development of reason and the adjustment of conduct to principles.

Eleven

The heart is convinced that custom is a virtue. The heart of the dirty working-man rebels when the State insists that he shall be clean, for no other reason than that it is his custom to be dirty.

Twelve

To be honest with oneself is not so simple as it appears.

Thirteen

“My wife will never understand,” said Mr. Brindley, “that complete confidence between two human beings is impossible.”

Fourteen

Demanding honesty from your authors, you must see that you render it yourself.

Fifteen

Imagine the technical difficulties of a painter whose canvas was always being rolled off one stick on to another stick, and who was compelled to do his picture inch by inch, seeing nothing but the particular inch which happened to be under his brush. That difficulty is only one of the difficulties of the novelist.

Sixteen

It is a fact that few novelists enjoy the creative labour, though most enjoy thinking about the creative labour. Novelists enjoy writing novels no more than ploughmen enjoy following the plough. They regard business as a “grind.”

Seventeen

The born journalist comes into the world with the fixed notion that nothing under the sun is uninteresting. He says: “I cannot pass along the street, or cut a finger, or marry, or catch a cold or a fish, or go to church, or perform any act whatever, without being impressed anew by the interestingness of mundane phenomena, and without experiencing a desire to share this impression with my fellow-creatures.”

Eighteen

Any change, even a change for the better, is always accompanied by drawbacks and discomforts.

Nineteen

It is much easier to begin a novel than to finish it. This statement applies to many enterprises, but to none with more force than to a long art-work such as a novel or a play.

Twenty

A true book is not always great. But a great book is never untrue.

Twenty-one

The impossible had occurred. I was no longer a mere journalist; I was an author. “After all, it’s nothing,” I said, with that intense and unoriginal humanity which distinguishes all of us. And in a blinding flash I saw that an author was in essence the same thing as a grocer or a duke.

Twenty-two

When the reason and the heart come into conflict the heart is invariably wrong.

Twenty-three

Marriage is excessively prosaic and eternal, not at all what you expect it to be.

Twenty-four

I do not forget that the realism of one age is the conventionality of the next. In the main the tendency of art is always to reduce and simplify its conventions, thus necessitating an increase of virtuosity in order to obtain the same effects of shapeliness and rhythm.

Twenty-five

For the majority of people the earth is a dull planet. It is only a Stevenson who can say: “I never remember being bored,” and one may fairly doubt whether even Stevenson uttered truth when he made that extraordinary statement. None of us escapes boredom entirely; some of us, indeed, are bored during the greater part of our lives. The fact is unpalatable, but it is a fact.

Twenty-six

An average of over an hour a day given to the mind should permanently and completely enliven the whole activity of the mind.

Twenty-seven

A large class of people positively resent being thrilled by a work of fiction, and the domestic serial is meant to appeal to this class.

Twenty-eight

It is natural that people who concern themselves with art only in their leisure moments, demanding from it nothing but a temporary distraction, should prefer the obvious to the recondite, and should walk regardless of beauty unless it forces itself upon their attention by means of exaggerations and advertisement. The public wants to be struck, hit squarely in the face; then it will take notice.

Twenty-nine

When a book attains a large circulation one usually says that it succeeds. But the fine books succeed of themselves, by their own virtue, and apart from the acclamatory noises of fame. Immure them in cabinets, cast them into Sahara; still they imperturbably succeed. If, on a rare occasion, such a book sells by scores of thousands, it is not the book but the public which succeeds; it is not the book but the public which has emerged splendidly from a trial.

Thirty

The artists who have courage fully to exploit their own temperaments are always sufficiently infrequent to be peculiarly noticeable and welcome. Still more rare are they who, leaving it to others to sing and emphasise the ideal and obvious beauties which all can in some measure see, will exclusively exercise the artist’s prerogative as an explorer of hidden and recondite beauty in unsuspected places.

Thirty-one

Bad books, by flattering you, by caressing, by appealing to the weak or the base in you, will often persuade you what fine and splendid books they are.

[109]

November

One

It is well to remind ourselves that literature is first and last a means of life, and that the enterprise of forming one’s literary taste is an enterprise of learning how best to use this means of life.

Two

Instead of saying, “Sorry I can’t see you, old chap, but I have to run off to the tennis club,” you must say, “... But I have to work.” This, I admit, is intensely difficult to say. Tennis is so much more urgent than the immortal soul.

Three

A talent never persuades or encourages the owner of it; it drives him with a whip.

Four

One of the chief things which one has to learn is that the mental faculties are capable of a continuous hard activity; they do not tire like an arm or a leg. All they want is change, not rest, except in sleep.

Five

Characterisation, the feat of individualising characters, is the inmost mystery of imaginative literary art. It is of the very essence of the novel. It never belongs to this passage or that. It is implicit in the whole. It is always being done, and is never finished till the last page is written.

Six

Can you deny that when you have something definite to look forward to at eventide, something that is to employ all your energy, the thought of that something gives a glow and a more intense vitality to the whole day?

Seven

Most good books have begun by causing anger which disguised itself as contempt.

Eight

When a thing is supreme there is nothing to be said.

Nine

Ivan Sergeïtch Turgenev’s Birthday

The author of a miracle like On the Eve may be born, but he is also made. In the matter of condensation alone Turgenev was unique among the great literary artificers. He could say more in a chapter of two thousand words than any other novelist that ever lived. What he accomplishes again and again in a book of sixty thousand words, Tolstoi could not have accomplished under a quarter of a million.

Ten

Fine taste in fiction is almost as rare among novelists as among the general public.

Eleven

I have never once produced any literary work without a preliminary incentive quite other than the incentive of ebullient imagination. I have never “wanted to write,” until the extrinsic advantages of writing had presented themselves to me.

Twelve

Beauty is strangely various. There is the beauty of light and joy and strength exulting; but there is also the beauty of shade, of sorrow and sadness, and of humility oppressed. The spirit of the sublime dwells not only in the high and remote; it shines unperceived amid all the usual meannesses of our daily existence.

Thirteen

Always give your fellow creature credit for good intentions. Do not you, though sometimes mistakenly, always act for the best? You know you do. And are you alone among mortals in rectitude?

Fourteen

There is no such case as the average case, just as there is no such man as the average man. Every man and every man’s case is special.

Fifteen

Outside the department of fiction there are two kinds of authors—those who want to write because they have something definite to say, and those who want something definite to say because they can write.

Sixteen

A lover is one who deludes himself; a journalist is one who deludes himself and other people.

Seventeen

Although a very greedy eater of literature, I can only enjoy reading when I have little time for reading. Give me three hours of absolute leisure with nothing to do but read, and I instantly become almost incapable of the act.

Eighteen

I would point out that literature by no means comprises the whole field of knowledge, and that the disturbing thirst to improve one’s self—to increase one’s knowledge—may well be slaked quite apart from literature.

Nineteen

The public, by its casual approval, may give notoriety and a vogue which passes, but it is incapable of the sustained ardour of appreciation which alone results in authentic renown. It is incapable because it is nonchalant. To the public art is a very little thing—a distraction, the last resort against ennui. To the critics art looms enormous. They do not merely possess views; they are possessed by them. Their views amount to a creed, and that creed must be spread. Quiescence is torment to the devotee. He cannot cry peace when there is no peace. Passionate conviction, like murder, will out. “I believe; therefore you must believe”: that is the motto which moves the world.

Twenty

Only those who have lived at the full stretch seven days a week for a long time can appreciate the full beauty of a regularly recurring idleness.

Twenty-one

Publishers as a commercial class are neither more nor less honourable than any other commercial class, and authors are neither more nor less honourable than publishers. In the world of commerce one fights for one’s own hand and keeps within the law; the code is universally understood, and the man who thinks it ought to be altered because he happens to be inexperienced, is a fool.

Twenty-two

There can be no sort of doubt that unless I was prepared to flout the wisdom of the ages, I ought to have refused his suggestion. But is not the wisdom of the ages a medicine for majorities? And, indeed, I was prepared to flout it, as in our highest and our lowest moments we often are.

Twenty-three

London is chiefly populated by greyhaired men who for twenty years have been about to become journalists and authors. And but for a fortunate incident—the thumb of my Fate has always been turned up—I might ere this have fallen back into that tragic rearguard of Irresolutes.

Twenty-four

I think it is rather fine, this necessity for the tense bracing of the will before anything worth doing can be done. I rather like it myself. I feel it to be the chief thing that differentiates me from the cat by the fire.

Twenty-five

The most important preliminary to the task of arranging one’s life so that one may live fully and comfortably within one’s daily budget of twenty-four hours, is the calm realisation of the extreme difficulty of the task, of the sacrifices and the endless effort it demands.

Twenty-six

Whatever sin a man does he either does for his own benefit or for the benefit of society.

Twenty-seven

The critic’s first requisite is that he should be interested. A man may have an instinctive good taste, but if his attitude is one of apathy, then he is not a true critic. The opinions of the public are often wrong; the opinions of the critic are usually right. But the fundamental difference between these two bodies does not lie here; it lies in the fact that the critics “care,” while the public does not care.

Twenty-eight

When, after the theatre, a woman precedes a man into a carriage, does she not publish and glory in the fact that she is his? Is it not the most delicious of avowals? There is something in the enforced bend of one’s head as one steps in. And when the man shuts the door with a masculine snap——

Twenty-nine

Ardour in well-doing is a misleading and a treacherous thing. It cries out loudly for employment; you can’t satisfy it at first; it wants more and more; it is eager to move mountains and divert the course of rivers; it isn’t content till it perspires. And then, too often, when it feels the perspiration on its brow, it wearies all of a sudden and dies, without even putting itself to the trouble of saying, “I’ve had enough of this.”

Thirty

Literature exists so that where one man has lived finely ten thousand may afterwards live finely.

[119]

December

One

To hear a master play a scale, to catch that measured, tranquil succession of notes, each a different jewel of equal splendour, each dying precisely when the next was born—this is to perceive at last what music is made of, to have glimpses of the divine magic that is the soul of the divinest art.

Two

When the swimmer unclothes, and abandons himself to the water, naked, letting the water caress the whole of his nakedness, moving his limbs in voluptuous ease untrammelled by even the lightest garment, then, as never under other conditions, he is aware of his body; and perhaps the thought occurs to him that to live otherwise than in that naked freedom is not to live.

Three

Has it never struck you that you have at hand a machine wonderful beyond all mechanisms in sheds, intricate, delicately adjustable, of astounding and miraculous possibilities, interminably interesting? That machine is yourself.

Four

The sound reputation of an artist is originally due never to the public, but to the critics. I do not use the word “critic” in a limited, journalistic sense; it is meant to include all those persons, whether scribes or not, who have genuine convictions about art.

Five

The movement for opening museums on Sundays is the most natural movement that could be conceived. For if ever a resort was invented and fore-ordained to chime with the true spirit of the British Sabbath, that resort is the average museum.

Six

The manufacture of musical comedy is interesting and curious, but I am not aware that it has anything to do with dramatic art.

Seven

Though you have the wealth of a cloak-room attendant at the Carlton Hotel, you cannot buy yourself a minute more time than I have, or the cat by the fire has.

Eight

The man of business, even in the very daily act of deceit, will never yield up the conviction that, after all, at bottom he is crystal honest. It is his darling delusion.

Nine

Happiness is not joy, and it is not tranquillity. It is something deeper and something more disturbing. Perhaps it is an acute sense of life, a realisation of one’s secret being, a continual renewal of the mysterious savour of existence.

Ten

Our best plays, as works of art, are strikingly inferior to our best novels. A large section of the educated public ignores the modern English theatre as being unworthy of attention.

Eleven

Romance, interest, dwell not in the thing seen, but in the eye of the beholder.

Twelve

Every bookish person has indulgently observed the artless absorption and surrender with which a “man of action” reads when by chance a book captures him, his temporary monomania, his insistence that the bookish person shall share his joy, and his impatience at any exhibition of indifference. For the moment the terrible man of action is a child again; he who has straddled the world is like a provincial walking with open-mouthed delight through the streets of the capital.

Thirteen

The woman who quarrels with a maid is clumsy, and the woman who quarrels with a good maid is either a fool or in a nervous, hysterical condition, or both.

Fourteen

Men have a habit of taking themselves for granted, and that habit is responsible for nine-tenths of the boredom and despair on the face of the planet.

Fifteen

Anyone can learn to write, and to write well, in any given style; but to see, to discern the interestingness which is veiled from the crowd—that comes not by tuition; rather by intuition.

Sixteen

The forms of faith change, but the spirit of faith is immortal amid its endless vicissitudes.

Seventeen

Consider the attitude of Dissenters of the trading and industrial classes towards the art of literature.... That attitude is at once timid, antagonistic, and resentful. Timid, because print still has for the unlettered a mysterious sanction; antagonistic because Puritanism and the arts have by no means yet settled their quarrel; resentful because the autocratic power of art over the imagination and the intelligence is felt without being understood.

Eighteen

It is said that men are only interested in themselves. The truth is that, as a rule, men are interested in every mortal thing except themselves.

Nineteen

It is less difficult, I should say, to succeed moderately in journalism than to succeed moderately in dressmaking.

Twenty

Music cannot be said. One art cannot be translated into another.

Twenty-one

A deep-seated objection to the intrusion of even the most loved male at certain times is common, I think, to all women. Women are capable of putting love aside, like a rich dress, and donning the peignoir of matter-of-fact dailiness, in a way which is an eternal enigma to men.

Twenty-two

There’s nothing like a corpse for putting everything at sixes and sevens.

Twenty-three

Great grief is democratic, levelling—not downwards but upwards. It strips away the inessential and makes brothers. It is impatient with all the unavailable inventions which obscure the brotherhood of mankind.

Twenty-four

The expression of the soul by means of the brain and body is what we call the art of “living.”

Twenty-five

That Christmas has lost some of its magic is a fact that the common-sense of the western hemisphere will not dispute. To blink the fact is infantile. To confront it, to try to understand it, to reckon with it, and to obviate any evil that may attach to it—this course alone is meet for an honest man.

Twenty-six

It must be admitted in favour of the Five Towns that, when its inhabitants spill milk, they do not usually sit down on the pavement and adulterate the milk with their tears. They pass on. Such passing on is termed callous and coldhearted in the rest of England, which loves to sit down on pavements and weep into irretrievable milk.

Twenty-seven

At thirty the chances are that a man will understand better the draughts of a chimney than his own respiratory apparatus—to name one of the simple, obvious things; and as for understanding the working of his own brain—what an idea!

Twenty-eight

Science is making it increasingly difficult to conceive matter apart from spirit. Everything lives. Even my razor gets “tired.”

Twenty-nine

No book in any noble library is so interesting, so revealing, as the catalogue of it.

Thirty

Love is the greatest thing in life; one may, however, question whether it should be counted greater than life itself.

Thirty-one

The indispensable preparation for brain-discipline is to form the habit of regarding one’s brain as an instrument exterior to one’s self, like a tongue or a foot.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

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Table of Contents

The Arnold Bennett Calendar

January

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one

- Twenty-two

- “Cupid and Commonsense” produced.

- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one

February

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine

March

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one

April

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five

- Twenty-six

- William Shakespeare’s Birthday

- Twenty-seven

- Herbert Spencer’s Birthday

- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty

May

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen

- Seventeen

- “Anna of the Five Towns” finished 1901

- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six

- Twenty-seven

- My Birthday

- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one

June

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty

July

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one

August

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one

September

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two

- Twenty-three

- Samuel Johnson’s Birthday

- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty

October

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one

November

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight

- Nine

- Ivan Sergeïtch Turgenev’s Birthday

- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty

December

- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one

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