I’m just reading Delight, which is a collection of short essays by JB Priestley that has recently been re-published and it is proving to be just that — an utter delight. Some of it is passing whimsy, some of it is shot throughwith penetrating insight about the art of writing and all of it is absolutely brimful with unassuming charm. He revels in such diverse, ordinary, unexpected pleasures: smoking a pipe in the bath, seeing actors swagger past on their way to the stage door, the feel of wood : “I put my hand on the desk on which I am writing now, and it is almost as if my palm fell on the shoulder of a brother. Into this patient material have passed rain and sun, steely mornings in March, the glow of October: it has lived as some secret part of us still lives.” Perfect!
A companion volume called Modern Delight has been published too and contributors include Joan Bakewell, Sebastian Faulks and Richard Eyre. This is equally fascinating for the glancing light it throws on people we admire — Joan Bakewell likes motorway service stations and Richard Eyre the ritual pleasure of a well mixed martini. But what I love about JB Priestley’s original is the way his benign, sometimes crotchety, sometimes provocative persona gradually emerges. It’s a bit like looking at a pointillist painting: you immerse yourself in a myriad of detail, then take a step back and the whole picture is revealed.
My definition of delight? Reading JB Priestley guiltily, because I should be stuck into The Atrocity Exhibition by JG Ballard…
Categories: Reading |