Time to Be in Earnest: A Fragment of Autobiography

Time to Be in Earnest: A Fragment of Autobiography

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by P. D. James

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On the day she turned seventy-seven, internationally acclaimed mystery writer P. D. James embarked on an endeavor unlike any other in her distinguished career: she decided to write a personal memoir in the form of a diary. Over the course of a year she set down not only the events and impressions of her extraordinarily active life, but also the memories, joys,

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On the day she turned seventy-seven, internationally acclaimed mystery writer P. D. James embarked on an endeavor unlike any other in her distinguished career: she decided to write a personal memoir in the form of a diary. Over the course of a year she set down not only the events and impressions of her extraordinarily active life, but also the memories, joys, discoveries, and crises of a lifetime. This enchantingly original volume is the result.

Time to Be in Earnest offers an intimate portrait of one of most accomplished women of our time. Here are vivid, revealing accounts of her school days in Cambridge in the 1920s and '30s, her happy marriage and the tragedy of her husband's mental illness, and the thrill of publishing her first novel, Cover Her Face, in 1962. As she recounts the decades of her exceptional life, James holds forth with wit and candor on such diverse subjects as the evolution of the detective novel, her deep love of the English countryside, her views of author tours and television adaptations, and her life-long obsession with Jane Austen. Wise and frank, engaging and graceful, this "fragment of autobiography" will delight and surprise P. D. James's admirers the world over.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Deeply moving . . . . Page after page recalls a vanished world."— The New York Times Book Review

"A cornucopia of discernment, judgment, and wisdom." —San Francisco Chronicle

"James neither overintellectualizes nor sentimentalizes. . . . Writing about commonplace events, [she] gives them weight and substance and so confirms their reality, investing them with a radiance that illuminates this fragment of autobiography." —The Washington Post

Library Journal
In 1997, on the eve of her 77th birthday, noted mystery novelist James (A Certain Justice) decided to keep a diary for the first time ever, recording one year in her life. The result is this "fragment of autobiography," a mix of memoir, ruminations on everything from her writing career to Princess Diana's death, and literary criticism (James is a passionate admirer of Jane Austen and includes in an appendix a speech she gave to the Jane Austen Society on "Emma Considered as a Detective Story"). While James confesses to loving gossip in other people's diaries, she admits that her own has "little to offer in the way of titillating revelations." Although her discretion about the painful periods in her life (in particular, her husband's mental illness) is admirable in this Age of Indecent Exposure, it also makes for an impersonal and rather dull diary. The reader never gets a sense of the true James and the events that shaped her as a writer and human being. For larger collections.[Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 1/00.]--Wilda Williams, "Library Journal" Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\
School Library Journal
Adult/High School-Keeping in mind the words of Samuel Johnson, "At seventy-seven it is time to be in earnest," James decided to record feelings and observations about her world from her 77th to her 78th birthday. She wanted to capture the events, thoughts, and emotions of one year not only for her family but also as a record for herself. Much more than an account of day-to-day events though, she gives brief insights into what it was like to grow up in wartime England, her ideas about authors and the craft of writing, and the changes in the treatment of women. Mundane events such as catching the Oxford Tube mingle with more exciting activities such as book signing in Dallas. Readers looking for intimate revelations might be disappointed by the tone of her writing. In the prologue, she says, "There is much that I remember that is painful to dwell upon. I see no need to write about these things." And yet, as she speaks about her husband and his mental illness or the unhappiness of her parents' marriage, she doesn't gloss over some very sad moments. An enjoyable choice for fans of this British mystery writer.-Peggy Bercher, Fairfax County Public Library, VA Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Tony Gibbs
Written in the form of a diary of her 78th year, P. D. James's Time to Be in Earnest is, in fact, a partial autobiography - "a fragment," the author calls it. James, justly famous for her series of darkly brooding mystery novels, is a life peer, and she reveals herself in entries that form the record of one who takes her obligations in parliament seriously. She is also a woman whose past includes perhaps more than the usual share of personal sorrows, and an imaginative and precise writer whose notable opinions about other artists are always worth reading. But the best thing about this unexpectedly magical volume is the way in which its author embodies her country at its best, for this is, at bottom, a book about England, past and present.
Islands Magazine
[A] delicately constructed memoir . . . This book is no septuagenarian's exercise in nostalgia. . . . Her diary's deft, light touch covers a stark moral philosophy. . . . deeply moving, and all too short.
The New York Times Book Review
Kirkus Reviews
From British mystery writer (and recent Baroness) James, an elegantly constructed, deceptively off-the-cuff reflection on her life and times that is by turns humorous, nostalgic, instructive, and ominous. In her tart fashion, James (A Certain Justice, 1997, etc.) initially notes that, rather than wait for interlopers to begin dissecting her life in unauthorized studies, it would be better (and more fun) to address the subject herself. In August 1997 she began a yearly diary in which her succinct daily entries arced inevitably backwards, using the medium to bring up long-neglected experiences in her own transformation from civil servant and young mother to acclaimed, best-selling author. In turn, she uses her personal journey to consider the tumultuous social changes that took place in Britain and British society (for whose popular culture and contemporary licentiousness she reserves harsh judgment). Although this approach sounds conceptually scattershot, there are a great many passages in this book of concentrated, unsettling power. These range from frightening yet acidly clear-eyed recollections of the war years to insightful considerations of the writing process and the mystery genre. As her journal coincides with the publication of A Certain Justice, she also portrays in restrained but humorous fashion the day-to-day chores of a top-flight popular writer "on the road"; at 78, James clearly relishes her contact with fans and her place in Brit-literary society, depicting her many speaking engagements at a variety of intellectual and social affairs. James is very adept in integrating consideration of her own past (including tales of her long-lost husband and of her ownyouth)into what is essentially a recounting of the present, both as response to the modern era and as a personal record not preoccupied with her "golden years." Yet, as the title implies, an urgency pervades James' setting down this selective kaleidoscope of memory, which makes her transitions seem smoother and her themes more universal (particularly her invaluable asides regarding her chosen genre). A charming, informative, and timely memoir, with vividly somber undertones, sure to be treasured by James' readers. (First printing of 50,000)

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Random House Publishing Group
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5.52(w) x 8.26(h) x 0.65(d)

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A diary, if intended for publication (and how many written by a novelist are not?), is the most egotistical form of writing. The assumption is inevitably that what the writer thinks, does, sees, eats and drinks on a daily basis is as interesting to others as it is to himself or herself.
And what motive could possibly induce people to undertake the tedium of this daily task—for surely at times it must be tedious—not just for one year, which seems formidable enough, but sometimes for a lifetime? As a lover of diaries, I am glad that so many have found time and energy and still do. How much of interest, excitement, information, history and fascinating participation in another's life would be lost without the diaries of John Evelyn, Samuel Pepys, Virginia Woolf, Evelyn Waugh,
Fanny Burney and Francis Kilvert. Even the diary of a fictional
Victorian, Cecily Cardew in The Importance of Being Earnest, "simply a very young girl's record of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for publication," would have its appeal.

I have never up until now kept a diary, largely because of indolence.
During my career as a bureaucrat, a working day spent mainly in drafting reports or speeches and writing letters or minutes left little incentive for further writing, particularly the recording of trivia.

And any writing, if it is worth doing, requires care, and I have preferred to spend that care on my fiction. My motive now is to record just one year that otherwise might be lost, not only to children and grandchildren who might have an interest but, with the advance of age and perhaps the onset of the dreaded Alzheimer's, lost also to me. It will inevitably catch on the threads of memory as burrs stick to a coat,
so that this will be a partial autobiography and a defence against those who, with increasing frequency, in person or by letter, announce that they have been commissioned to write my biography and invite my co-operation. Always after my refusal there is the response, "Of course,
once you have died there will be biographies. Surely it's better to have one now when you can participate." Nothing is more disagreeable than the idea of having one now and of participation. Fortunately I am an appallingly bad letter-writer and both my children are reticent, but at least if they and others who enjoy my work are interested in what it was like to be born two years after the end of the First World War and to live for seventy-eight years in this tumultuous century, there will be some record, however inadequate.

I have a friend who assiduously keeps a diary, recording merely the facts of each day, and seems to find satisfaction in looking back over,
say, five years and proclaiming that "This was the day I went to
Southend-on-Sea with my sister." Perhaps the reading of those words brings back a whole day in its entirety—sound, sense, atmosphere,
thought—as the smell of decaying seaweed can bring in a rush the essence of long-forgotten summers. The diaries capturing adolescence, I suspect,
are mainly therapeutic, containing thoughts that cannot be spoken aloud,
particularly in the family, and a relief to overpowering emotions,
whether of joy or sorrow. A diary, too, can be a defence against loneliness. It is significant that many adolescent diaries begin "Dear
Diary." The book, carefully hidden, is both friend and confidant, one from whom neither criticism nor treachery need be feared. The daily words comfort, justify, absolve. Politicians are great keepers of diaries, apparently dictating them daily for eventual use in the inevitable autobiography, laying down ammunition as they might lay down port. But politicians' diaries are invariably dull, Alan Clark's being a notable exception. Perhaps all these motives are subordinate to the need to capture time, to have some small mastery over that which so masters us, to assure ourselves that, as the past can be real, so the future may hold the promise of reality. I write, therefore I am.

Perhaps some compulsive diarists write to validate this experience. Life for them is experienced with more intensity when recollected in tranquillity than it is at the living moment. After all, this happens in fiction. When I am writing a novel, the setting, the characters, the action are clear in my mind before I start work—or so I believe. But it is only when these imaginings are written down, passing, it seems almost physically, from my brain down the arm to my moving hand that they begin to live and move and have their being and assume a different kind of truth.

A diary, by definition, is a daily record. I very much doubt whether this proposed record of one year in my life will be a diary within the proper meaning of that word; certainly I can't see myself recording the events of every day. I feel, too, that many social events can't properly be mentioned since I have no intention of betraying confidences and some of the most interesting things I learn are said to me in confidence. I
love gossip in other people's diaries, while recognizing that its interest is in inverse proportion to its truth, but I suspect that this record will have little to offer in the way of titillating revelations.
And to look back on one's life is to experience the capriciousness of memory. When I was very young and leaving church with my mother, she told me that the hymn we had sung, "Blessed Are the Pure in Heart," was sung at the funeral of a friend of hers who had died in childbirth with her baby during the great flu pandemic which followed the First World
War. Now I can never hear it without thinking of that young mother and her child, both dead before I was born. No effort of will can banish a vague unfocused sadness from my thoughts every time that hymn is sung.
And the past is not static. It can be relived only in memory, and memory is a device for forgetting as well as remembering. It, too, is not immutable. It rediscovers, reinvents, reorganizes. Like a passage of prose it can be revised and repunctuated. To that extent, every autobiography is a work of fiction and every work of fiction an autobiography.

So tomorrow, on 3rd August, I shall write the first entry in a record which I propose to keep for one year, from my seventy-seventh to my seventy-eighth birthday. Will I persist with this effort? Only time will tell. And will I be here at the end of the year? At seventy-seven that is not an irrational question. But then is it irrational at any age? In youth we go forward caparisoned in immortality; it is only, I think, in age that we fully realize the transitoriness of life.

There is much that I remember but which is painful to dwell upon. I see no need to write about these things. They are over and must be accepted,
made sense of and forgiven, afforded no more than their proper place in a long life in which I have always known that happiness is a gift, not a right. And there are other matters over which memory has exercised its self-defensive censorship. Like dangerous and unpredictable beasts they lie curled in the pit of the subconscious. This seems a merciful dispensation; I have no intention of lying on a psychiatrist's couch in an attempt to hear their waking growls. But then I am a writer. We fortunate ones seldom have need for such an expedient. If, as one psychiatrist wrote—was it Anthony Storr?—"creativity is the successful resolution of internal conflict," then I, a purveyor of popular genre fiction, and that great genius Jane Austen have the same expedient for taming our sleeping tigers.

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