Minor Master

By James Atlas

ELECTRIC DELIGHTS by William Plomer Selected and Introduced by Rupert Hart-Davis Godine; 278 pages; $10

The professional man of letters, like the shepherd and the blacksmith, is a vanishing species, found mainly in the British Isles. William Plomer, who died in 1973 at the age of 69, was a notable specimen. He made his debut at 21 with Turbott Wolfe, a novel that Leonard and Virginia Woolf recognized as a minor masterpiece when he submitted it to their Hogarth Press. For half a century, biographies, essays, librettos, novels and poems fell from his prolific pen; Plomer had no typewriter. "Machines do not like me," he explained. "When I touch them they tend to break down, get jammed, catch fire, or blow up."

Plomer once compared himself to "a craftsman, a scholar, an engineer, or a scientist" in the quest for proper literary form; but he was entertaining in whatever medium he chose. Convinced that pleasure was an essential component of literary criticism, Plomer preferred the engaging voice of a raconteur to the severe objectivity of a scholar. "Why should we be hardened?" he wondered. "Who wants to be a fossil?" This generosity of spirit made him a popular figure on BBC radio and television, which he mastered despite his professed aversion for modern technology.

Electric Delights comprises a delightful miscellany of Plomeriana: brief essays on his favorite poets and novelists; portraits of Brighton, Wales and Ireland reprinted from his garrulous autobiography; a selection of poems and short stories. Plomer had a genius for the characteristic detail, the telling anecdote. George Gissing, a 19th century novelist scarred by neglect, wrote in the hesitant manner of one who, "anxious to avoid appearing gauche or conspicuous, may sometimes be caught glancing furtively round to make sure that he is about to use the right knife and fork." Edward FitzGerald, the reclusive translator of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, waved away a dubious bowl of pudding at his wedding breakfast with the exclamation, "Ugh! Congealed bridesmaid!" Ireland is found "so melancholy, so full of the ghosts of feuds and famines, the clouds fly low, the trees sag under the incessant rain, and the very air seems charged and weighed down with a sense of grievance." An Alphabet of Literary Prejudice includes a list of names from the London phone book (among the more notable: Geoffrey Gush, Dr. Fredoon Famrose and Mr. Halfhead).

When it came to annihilating bromides, Plomer was a vigilante. He continually hunted worn phrases, particularly the ones found in obituaries: "infectious laughter," "selfless devotion," "indomitable courage." As to the deceased who possessed "an immense affection for all animals," a question nagged: "Did he cherish warthogs and dote on hyenas, did he take the skunk to his bosom?" Plomer's acerbic critiques did not stop at the mirror. For his own epitaph he furnished a shrewd, unblinking self-estimate:

Sometimes thinking aloud

He went his own way.

He was joky by nature. Sad, sceptical, proud.

What he never would follow,

Or lead, was a crowd.

--James Atlas

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.