Penguin Great Ideas : Why I Write Book

Table of Contents: WHY I WRITE THE SPIKEA HANGINGBOOKSHOP MEMORIESSHOOTING AN ELEPHANTDOWN THE MINENORTH AND SOUTHSPILLING THE SPANISH BEANSMARRAKECHBOYS- WEEKLIES AND FRANK RICHARDS-S REPLYCHARLES DICKENSCHARLES READEINSIDE THE WHALETHE ART OF DONALD MCGILLTHE LION AND THE UNICORN: SOCIALISM AND THE ENGLISH GENIUSWELLS, HITLER AND THE WORLD STATELOOKING BACK ON THE SPANISH WARRUDYARD KIPLINGMARK TWAIN-THE LICENSED JESTERPOETRY AND THE MICROPHONEW B YEATSARTHUR KOESTLERBENEFIT OF CLERGY: SOME NOTES ON SALVADOR DALIRAFFLES AND MISS BLANDISHANTISEMITISM IN BRITAINFREEDOM OF THE PARKFUTURE OF A RUINED GERMANYGOOD BAD BOOKSIN DEFENCE OF P. G. WODEHOUSENONSENSE POETRYNOTES ON NATIONALISMREVENGE IS SOURTHE SPORTING SPIRITYOU AND THE ATOMIC BOMBA GOOD WORD FOR THE VICAR OF BRAYA NICE CUP OF TEABOOKS VS. CIGARETTESCONFESSIONS OF A BOOK REVIEWERDECLINE OF THE ENGLISH MURDERHOW THE POOR DIEJAMES BURNHAM AND THE MANAGERIAL REVOLUTIONPLEASURE SPOTSPOLITICS AND THE ENGLISH LANGUAGEPOLITICS VS. LITERATURE: AN EXAMINATION OF GULLIVER-S TRAVELSRIDING DOWN FROM BANGORSOME THOUGHTS ON THE COMMON TOADTHE PREVENTION OF LITERATURELEAR, TOLSTOY AND THE FOOLSUCH, SUCH WERE THE JOYSWRITERS AND LEVIATHANREFLECTIONS ON GANDHI a selection from WHY I WRITE: From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books. I was the middle child of three, but there was a gap of five years on either side, and I barely saw my father before I was eight. For this and other reasons I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my schooldays. I had the lonely child-s habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life. Nevertheless the volume of serious-i.e. seriously intended-writing which I produced all through my childhood and boyhood would not amount to half a dozen pages. I wrote my first poem at the age of four or five, my mother taking it down to dictation. I cannot remember anything about it except that it was about a tiger and the tiger had -chair-like teeth--a good enough phrase, but I fancy the poem was a plagiarism of Blake-s -Tiger, Tiger-. At eleven, when the war or 1914-18 broke out, I wrote a patriotic poem which was printed in the local newspaper, as was another, two years later, on the death of Kitchener. From time to time, when I was a bit older, I wrote bad and usually unfinished -nature poems- in the Georgian style. I also attempted a short story which was a ghastly failure. That was the total of the would-be serious work that I actually set down on paper during all those years. However, throughout this time I did in a sense engage in literary activities. To begin with there was the made-to-order stuff which I produced quickly, easily and without much pleasure to myself. Apart from school work, I wrote VERS D-OCCASION, semi-comic poems which I could turn out at what now seems to me astonishing speed-at fourteen I wrote a whole rhyming play, in imitation of Aristophanes, in about a week-and helped to edit a school magazines, both printed and in manuscript....Read More