Other People’s Diaries
February 2019 Book Choice: The Diary of a Nobody, G.&W. Grossmith
When I saw this book last year in the Used Book Section of Blackwell’s (name-droppin’) I knew it was the weird bit of Victoriana I needed.
A few years ago I was obsessed with diaries, the concept of keeping them, and with reading the diaries of famous people, writers mainly—now that I mention it I’m not so sure how many I actually read (although I did sail through the six volumes of L.M. Montgomery’s diaries). I wanted to know the practical details of how these people, who are now mostly historical figures, lived. I wanted to know what they liked to eat, the objects they had available to them, how hard it was to keep up appearances on their budgets,as well as what they felt about their facial features and their assessments of their interior qualities.
I’m still not sure whether I was looking for role models to emulate, another’s life to live as my own, or whether the dormant archaeologist in me was looking for interesting descriptions of the historical stuff that we no longer use.
A bit of both, probably. I am a recovering addict of the minutiae of life.
I say “recovering” because I find that I want to poke and pry just a little bit less these days, and there are two reasons for this: I have a stronger sense of self now and have made peace with living my own life, a new one, unrecorded in anyone’s diary; I’m clearly getting more comfortable with my own story. The other is, I don’t have the time to pry. Confidence seems to happen when you don’t have as much time to constantly wonder if you are doing life right. You just have to do it. And whoops, another day has ended. I wouldn’t ever have the time to keep a diary now and it’s probably for the best. I always fed my collections of daily waffle (never kept up longer that 2 weeks at a time) to the flames–yes the literal flames. This tendency has caused one friend of mine to think I was rather a tortured soul; when in actuality I was merely melodramatic and liked to pretend I was living in another century. I could much more easily have recycled them.
Mr. Pooter, the hero of The Diary of Nobody, is fairly tortured by his social-class aspirations, and by the actual minutiae of daily life. All the very, very minor inconveniences of the Victorian era are included: rude guests, thoughtless friends, a metal boot-scraper attached to the front stoop which everyone keeps tripping over, too much deference paid to the wrong people, embarrassing servants; all enumerated in loving detail. It was fun to dip into and out of, and though I probably will not read it again (leave a comment and I’ll send you it in the mail), this book passed several February evenings quite pleasantly.
This Penguin version has a stellar introduction which contextualizes the book in terms of its effects (I did chortle at the idea that contemporary politicians sometimes refer to other politicians they find more boring than themselves as “Mr. Pooter”). Otherwise I did not laugh out loud per say while reading, but I do appreciate the list of literature that this book engendered. A book called Mrs. Pooter’s Diary was written in 1983 by Michael Joseph, as if Mr. Pooter’s cipher of a wife had written a diary also; if I ever chance upon it I would definitely read it. This exercise in the Victorian obsession with keeping diaries also reminded me that one of my major life goals is to read
**The Diary of A Country Parson by James Woodeforde**
as it is mainly a record of meals eaten in the 18th century and apparently includes such gems as “My little cart was brought home from being painted and now looks very smart indeed.” I sincerely cannot wait for the day when I can indulge in these long-past moments of no consequence, which would have gone unknown if not for…too obliging preservation.
Mr. Pooter’s Diary reminded me mainly of the growth of consumerism during the Industrial Revolution in the broadest sense (no really, it did) in how Mr. Pooter and Carrie, his wife, certainly needed to live to a particular standard in order to “maintain” their social status (for example, they are constantly adding decorative fripperies to their house). After I had finished reading, I was quite impressed with the idea that Mr. Pooter uses much of his salary to buy his middle class respectability.
And though I would never comment on the British class system because I never could, what I mean is that Mr. Pooter, and I think every generation until just about now, when a backlash wave of “minimalism” has arrived, needed to have the right stuff in their houses.
This is a boon for archaeologists. In Canada, historic archaeologists date early homesteads by the colourful shards of mass-produced tableware that are lovingly pried out of the ground. And of course, some of this material is so recent that it hasn’t made it into the ground yet. I was in an antique shop in my town in Germany recently, looking at all the things that Mr. Pooter would have happily collected and displayed, but which no one is ever going to use again: sugar tongs, 16-prong candelabras, huge sets of matching fancy tea dishes, decorative figurines up to the ceiling…Who is going to buy these things? No one lives like this anymore.
If I had enough time in life I would read Empire of Things by Frank Trentmann (which I also saw in Blackwells that soggy August day) and although that might not happen, I can recommend you to read, or even better, to listen to At Home: A Short History of Private Life by Bill Bryson. I have really enjoyed “At Home,” I’ve listened to it twice! It has all the interesting details of human life–how beds were fabulous luxuries up until the 16th century, the history of the development of the indoor bathroom, and packed with titbits such as the brief, bright life of Mrs. Beeton, the first bestselling cookbook author—it’s perfect for really nosy people and armchair historians alike.
If I get another craving for the minutiae of life, I might read Faber and Faber’s Book of Diaries, which is apparently gently amusing in the same repressed-mirth, indignant English way as is Mr. Pooter’s Diary. I’ve given diary writing up definitively, but I would never fault Pooter for recording his days. We are all special, to ourselves.