One day Sir James Barrie discovered Bernard Shaw while he was lunching at the Athenæum, staring somewhat disconsolately at an unsavoury mess of vegetables that adorned his plate.
“I hear you are working on a new play,” remarked Barrie, whimsically eyeing the contents of the platter.
For once G. B. S. had no answer ready.
Why won’t these do?
(Suggestion to Young American writing Book Reviews for New York Times in classical, simple, god-like manner of Anatole France.)
“The new book of Monsieur Henry Spriggins, which lies before me on my desk, fills me with misgivings. The author is young and intolerant of simple things. He is full of talent, but he is proud, and has not a simple heart. What a pity!” (etc.)
Wednesday—December 3, 1924: Comédie Francaise tonight “Les Plaideurs”—and “Phèdre”—Respect for play grew and for actors diminished and went on—The French applauded loudly when Madame Weber ended a long declamation on a screech.
LATER: To Régence and Harry’s—Bought some books along the quays—Saw Mrs. Martin at hotel today—Story of how she had been robbed—The picture galleries and antique shops of Rue des Saints-Pères.
Saturday—December 6:
Young Icarus lies drowned, God knows where.
Oxford in pursuit of a woman—one of the most dreary spectacles God hath given—Buol’s in the afternoon—
Foolish Question: Why are the Tories so eager to say Democracy has failed?
Hair like a copper cloud—feather and flame come back again.
The gutted plums bee-burrowed.
The poisoned inch around the heart.
The cancerous inch.
The burning inch of tongue.
The hairy grass.
The long sea-locks.
The hairy seas.
The other gate of ivory—
Ida—Cadmus—blunt drummed woodenly with blunt fingers. Sir Leoline the baron rich—Thunder-cuffing Zeus—Erasmus fed on rotten eggs—
