if I looked at naked women I’d turn to stone – and it’s starting.’
Jean Cocteau
1979
Took off at 8.20 in a curious twin-engined, high-wing, old Russian plane which I viewed with apprehension and dismay, but which in fact proved to be extremely stable for the three-hour slow journey, diverting in order to see things like the Silingue Dam and to follow the course of the River Niger to Timbuctoo.
I was greeted at the airport by the military governor, mayor, etc, and then at the entrance to the main square, five miles away, by two Nubian maidens, one of whom presented me with some dates, which I ate, and the other with a bowl of camel’s milk, which I put to my lips but refrained from drinking as it had the most nauseous smell. Then into the square where the whole population seemed to be lined up. Fortunately the population of Timbuctoo is now only about 8000 compared with 100,000 in 1500, so it was not quite as formidable a gathering as it might earlier have been. A lot of music and cheering, though quite whom or what they thought they were cheering I am not sure. Then I walked round the square and decided that the only thing to do was a Richard Nixon, plunge in, shake hands and then move on fifty yards and plunge again.
Roy Jenkins
1984
Two boxes arrived this morning, stuffed with PO cases and what officials call ‘reading’. First thing, always, on top of all the folders are the grey sheets of diary pages. My heart sank as I looked at the stuffed days, the names of dreary and supercilious civil servants who will (never singly) be attending. I’ve got three months of this ahead of me without a break.
At dinner the other night Peter [Morrison], who is a workaholic (not so difficult if you’re an unhappy bachelor living on whisky) showed Ian [Gow] and me, with great pride, his diary card for the day following. Every single minute, from 8.45 a.m. onwards, was filled with ‘engagements’.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘How’s that for a diary?’
Ian, unexpectedly and greatly to his credit, said, ‘If my Private Office produced a schedule like that I’d sack the whole lot, immediately.’
Alan Clark
1995
Peter Cook died yesterday and of course today is the funniest man who ever lived. He may almost have been. (Dud: ‘So would you say you’ve learned from your mistakes?’ Pete: ‘Oh yes, I’m certain I could repeat them exactly.’)
This morning, after dark thoughts about my life, I picked up Whole Earth Review and read the interview with Annie Nearing, now 94 years old. She said something that struck me right in the heart – though it seems very minor: ‘People give so much attention to food.’ This struck a chord because last night we left the Lacey meeting prematurely primarily so we could have a proper sit-down meal. A snack would have done me fine, and I was slightly discomfited that eating had come to occupy such a major position in our lives. Then I thought about all the evenings that evaporate in the long haze of preparing, eating, drinking, smoking. Lately, when cooking (unless I’m really in the mood) I find myself thinking, ‘This is taking an absurdly long time.’
Generally my feeling is towards less: less shopping, less eating, less drinking, less wasting, less playing by the rules and recipes. All of that I want in favour of more thinking on the feet, more improvising, more surprises, more laughs.
Brian Eno
11 January
1857
There was wit and even poetry in the negro’s answer to the man who tried to persuade him that the slaves would not be obliged to work in heaven. ‘Oh, you g’way, Massa. I know better. If dere’s no work for cullud folks up dar, dey’ll make some fur ‘em, and if dere’s nuffin better to do, dey’ll make em shub de clouds along. You can’t fool this chile, Massa.’
H. D. Thoreau
1909
Madam Posfay was in the courtyard of the palace at the time of the murder of the King and Queen of Serbia, but knew nothing. ‘What are they throwing bolsters out of the windows for?’ she asked. It was the bodies.
Arnold Bennett
1920
Like every morning I have had my enema, in order to preserve a clear skin and sweet breath. It is a family habit, approved of by Dr Pinard. One of Maman’s old great-aunts, the beautiful Madame Rhomès, died at the age of ninety and a half with a complexion of lilies and roses, skin like a child’s. She took her little enema, it seems, at five o’clock every evening, so that she would sleep very well. She did it cheerfully in public. She would simply stand in front of the fireplace; her servant would come in discreetly, armed with the loaded syringe; Madame Rhomès would lean forward gracefully so that her full skirts lifted, one two there, and it was done! Conversation was not interrupted. After a minute or two my beautiful ancestress would disappear briefly, soon to return with the satisfaction of a duty performed.
Liane de Pougy
1912
Night. Height 10, 530. Temp -16.3º. Minimum -25.8º. Another hard grind in the afternoon and five miles added. About 74 miles from the Pole – can we keep this up for seven days? It takes it out of us like anything. None of us ever had such hard work before. Cloud has been coming and going overhead all day, drifting from the S.E., but continually altering shape. Snow crystals falling all the time, a very light breeze at start soon dying away. The sun so bright and warm tonight that it is almost impossible to imagine a minus temperature. The snow seems to get softer as we advance; the sastrugi, though sometimes high and undercut, are not hard – no crusts, except yesterday the surface subsided once, as on the Barrier. Our chance still holds good if we can put the work in, but it’s a terribly trying time.
Captain Robert Falcon Scott
1940 [Berlin]
Cold. Fifteen degrees below zero centigrade outside my window. Half the population freezing in their homes and offices and workshops because there’s no coal. Pitiful to see in the streets yesterday people carrying a sack of coal home in a baby-carriage or on their shoulders. I’m surprised the Nazis are letting the situation become so serious. Everyone is grumbling. Nothing like continual cold to lower your morale. Learned today from a traveller back from Prague that producers of butter, flour, and other things in Slovakia and Bohemia are marking their goods destined for Germany as ‘Made in Russia.’ This on orders from Berlin, the idea being to show the German people how much ‘help’ is already coming from the Soviets.
William L. Shirer
1973
In the British Museum reading room I asked the superintendent if I might be allowed to visit the shelves in order to search for an article in an obscure Italian journal of the 1850s and 60s, the reference to which was evidently wrongly given in the bibliography I have consulted. He looked at me and said, ‘We are not supposed to, but you seem all right.’ ‘I hope I am, but I don’t know how you can tell,’ I said. He called a black assistant, who took me miles and miles upstairs past shelves and shelves and shelves, all beautifully stacked. We arrived at a little office amidst this forest of books.
The charming assistant took
