of reading。 but there i was； in a job where there was less than nothing to do； with the sea booming on the beach and the rain streaming down the window…panes—and a whole row of books staring me in the face on the temporary shelf someone had rigged up against the wall of the hut。 naturally i started to read them from end to end； with； at the beginning； about as much attempt to discriminate as a pig working its way through a pail of garbage。
but in among them there were three or four books that were different from the others。 no； you’ve got it wrong！ don’t run away with the idea that i suddenly discovered marcel proust or henry james or somebody。 i wouldn’t have read them even if i had。 these books i’m speaking of weren’t in the least highbrow。 but now and again it so happens that you strike a book which is exactly at the mental level you’ve reached at the moment； so much so that it seems to have been written especially for you。 one of them was h。 g。 wells’s the history of mr polly； in a cheap shilling edition which was falling to pieces。 i wonder if you can imagine the effect it had upon me； to be brought up as i’d been brought up； the son of a shopkeeper in a country town； and then to e across a book like that？ another was pton mackenzie’s sinister street。 it had been the scandal of the season a few years back； and i’d even heard vague rumours of it in lower binfield。 another was conrad’s victory； parts of which bored me。 but books like that started you thinking。 and there was a back number of some magazine with a blue cover which had a short story of d。 h。 lawrence’s in it。 i don’t remember the name of it。 it was a story about a german conscript who shoves his sergeant…major over the edge of a fortification and then does a bunk and gets caught in his girl’s bedroom。 it puzzled me a lot。 i couldn’t make out what it was all about； and yet it left me with a vague feeling that i’d like to read some others like it。
well； for several months i had an appetite for books that was almost like physical thirst。 it was the first real go…in at reading that i’d had since my dick donovan days。 at the beginning i had no idea how to set about getting hold of books。 i thought the only way was to buy them。 that’s interesting； i think。 it shows you the difference upbringing makes。 i suppose the children of the middle classes； the 500 pounds a year middle classes； know all about mudie’s and the times book club when they’re in their cradles。 a bit later i learned of the existence of lending libraries and took out a subscription at mudie’s and another at a library in bristol。 and what i read during the next year or so！ wells； conrad； kipling； galsworthy； barry pain； w。 w。 jacobs； pett ridge； oliver onions； pton mackenzie； h。 seton merriman； maurice baring； stephen mckenna； may sinclair； arnold bennett； anthony hope； elinor glyn； o。 henry； stephen leacock； and even silas hocking and jean stratton porter。 how many of the names in that list are known to you； i wonder？ half the books that people took seriously in those days are forgotten now。 but at the beginning i swallowed them all down like a whale that’s got in among a shoal of shrimps。 i just revelled in them。 after a bit； of course； i grew more highbrow and began to distinguish between tripe and not…tripe。 i got hold of lawrence’s sons and lovers and sort of half…enjoyed it； and i got a lot of kick out of oscar wilde’s dorian gray and stevenson’s new arabian nights。 wells was the author who made the biggest impression on me。 i read george moore’s esther waters and liked it； and i tried several of hardy’s novels and always got stuck about half…way through。 i even had a go at ibsen； who left me with a vague impression that in norway it’s always raining。
it was queer； really。 even at the time it struck me as queer。 i was a second…loot with hardly any cockney accent left； i could already distinguish between arnold bennett and elinor glyn； and yet it was only four years since i’d been slicing cheese behind the counter in my white apron and looking forward to the days when i’d be a master…grocer。 if i tot up the account； i suppose i must admit that the war did me good as well as harm。 at any rate that year of reading novels was the only real education； in the sense of book…learning； that i’ve ever had。 it did certain things to my mind。 it gave me an attitude； a kind of questioning attitude； which i probably wouldn’t have had if i’d gone through life in a normal sensible way。 but—i wonder if you can understand this—the thing that really changed me； really made an impression on me； wasn’t so much the books i read as the rotten meaninglessness of the life i was leading。
it really was unspeakably meaningless； that time in 1918。 here i was； sitting beside the stove in an army hut； reading novels； and a few hundred miles away in france the guns were roaring and droves of wretched children； wetting their bags with fright； were being driven into the machine…gun barrage like you’d shoot small coke into a furnace。 i was one of the lucky ones。 the higher…ups had taken their eye off me； and here i was in a snug little bolt…hole； drawing pay for a job that didn’t exist。 at times i got into a panic and made sure they’d remember about me and dig me out； but it never happened。 the official forms； on gritty grey paper； came in once a month； and i filled them up and sent them back； and more forms came in； and i filled them up and sent them back； and so it went on。 the whole thing had about as much sense in it as a lunatic’s dream。 the effect of all this； plus the books i was reading； was to leave me with a feeling of disbelief in everything。
i wasn’t the only one。 the war was full of loose ends and forgotten corners。 by this time literally millions of people were stuck up backwaters of one kind and another。 whole armies were rotting away on fronts that people had forgotten the names of。 there were huge ministries with hordes of clerks and typists all drawing two pounds a week and upwards for piling up mounds of paper。 moreover they knew perfectly well that all they were doing was to pile up mounds of paper。 nobody believed the atrocity stories and the gallant little belgium stuff any longer。 the soldiers thought the germans were good fellows and hated the french like poison。 every junior officer looked on the general staff as mental defectives。 a sort of wave of disbelief was moving across england； and it even got as far as twelve mile dump。 it would be an exaggeration to say that the war turned people into highbrows； but it did turn them into nihilists for the time being。 people who in a normal way would have gone through life with about as much tendency to think for themselves as a suet pudding were turned into bolshies just by the war。 what should i be now if it hadn’t been for the war？ i don’t know； but something different from what i am。 if the war didn’t happen to kill you it was bound to start you thinking。 after that unspeakable idiotic mess you couldn’t go on regarding society as something eternal and unquestionable； like a pyramid。 you knew it was just a balls…up。
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PART Ⅱ…9
＜小＞说？网
the war had jerked me out of the old life i’d known； but in the queer period that came afterwards i forgot it almost pletely。
i know that in a sense one never forgets anything。 you remember that piece of orange…peel you saw in the gutter thirteen years ago； and that coloured poster of torquay that you once got a glimpse of in a railway waiting…room。 but i’m speaking of a different kind of memory。 in a sense i remembered the old life in lower binfield。 i remembered my fishing…rod and the smell of sainfoin and mother behind the brown teapot and jackie the bullfinch and the horse… trough in the market…place。 but none of it was alive in my mind any longer。 it was something far away； something that i’d finished with。 it would never have occurred to me that some day i might want to go back to it。
it was a queer time； those years just after the war； almost queerer than the war itself； though people don’t remember it so vividly。 in a rather different form the sense of disbelieving in everything was stronger than ever。 millions of men had suddenly been kicked out of the army to find that the country they’d fought for didn’t want them； and lloyd george and his pals were giving the works to any illusions that still existed。 bands of ex…service men marched up and down rattling collection boxes； masked women were singing in the streets； and chaps in officers’ tunics were grinding barrel… organs。 everybody in england seemed to be scrambling for jobs； myself included。 but i came off luckier than most。 i got a small wound…gratuity； and what with that and the bit of money i’d put aside during the last year of war （not having had much opportunity to spend it）； i came out of the army with no less than three hundred and fifty quid。 it’s rather interesting； i think； to notice my reaction。 here i was； with quite enough money to do the thing i’d been brought up to do and the thing i’d dreamed of for years—that is； start a shop。 i had plenty of capital。 if you bide your time and keep your eyes open you can run across quite nice little businesses for three hundred and