Issue 9 - Gold Dust magazine

tions:
'APRIL 13. An extraordinary
coincidence: Carrie had called in
a woman to make some chintz
covers for our drawing-room
chairs and sofa to prevent the
sun fading the green rep of the
furniture. I saw the woman, and
recognized her as a woman who
used to work years ago for my
old aunt at Clapham. It only
shows how small the world is.'
'Pooterism' has become a
byword for taking oneself too
seriously. It is, perhaps, Mr
Pooter's most marked character
trait:
'Another thing which is disappointing
to me is, that Carrie
and Lupin take no interest whatever
in my diary.
I broached the subject at the
breakfast-table to-day. I said: "I
was in hopes that, if anything
ever happened to me, the diary
would be an endless source of
pleasure to you both; to say
nothing of the chance of the
remuneration which may accrue
from its being published."
Both Carrie and Lupin burst
out laughing.'
As does the reader.
However, our laughter is a little
uneasy. It is tempered by sympathy
for Mr Pooter, because
this passage mercilessly pinpoints
the desire in all of us to
feel that we are important, that
we are appreciated, and that our
lives have meaning - as well as
the sneaking suspicion that they
don't, and that the joke is on us.
Thus, while we laugh at Mr
Pooter, we cannot help feeling
we might be more like him than
we care to admit. He has good
qualities – he is honest, industrious,
scrupulous, well meaning.
But he is irredeemably mediocre
– and does not know it. Thus, for
all his absurdity, there is a subdued
sense of tragic nobility
about him.
On a second or third reading
of the diary, our sympathy for
Mr Pooter tends to increase. In
addition to being stymied by his
own naïvety and self-importance,
he is horribly put upon by
practically everyone he encounters:
insolent tradesmen, disrespectful
work colleagues, infuriating
friends, his incomprehensible
son, Lupin, and by uninvited
dinner guests (such as the
dreadful Mr Padge who refuses
all food in order not to lose his
place in the best armchair by the
fire, and has no conversation
save the expression 'that's
right').
Naturally, Mr Pooter invariably
responds to such irritations
by standing heavily on his own
dignity:
'I was very angry, and I
wrote and said I knew little or
nothing about stage matters,
was not in the least interested in
them and positively declined to
be drawn into a discussion on
the subject…'
And his gaffes – not always
entirely his fault – sometimes
lead him into unenviably embarrassing
social situations.
Admiring a lady's portrait in the
home of Mr Finsworth, the uncle
of an old schoolfriend, Mr Pooter
observes that the face looks
rather pinched. Mr Finsworth
www.golddustmagazine.co.uk - Issue 9 - Winter 2007
How to write...a Comic Novel [cont’d]
replies sorrowfully: 'Yes, the face
was done after death – my wife's
sister.'
The Diary of a Nobody initially
had a cool reception and
was the subject of a number of
damning reviews. However,
towards the end of World War I it
began to take off. Writing in the
Daily Mail in 1930, Evelyn
Waugh claimed:
'I still think that the funniest
book in the world is Grossmith's
Diary of a Nobody. If only people
would really keep journals
like that.'
Waugh's comment, though
not especially penetrating, is significant.
What he, and latterly
other comic writers, began to
realise was that the book was in
some sense prophetic. It ushered
in various techniques that
were entirely new but which
could be reproduced to striking
comic effect, either used separately
or together. These 'Pooter
principles' include:
• The use of an ingenuous
method of self-revelation.
• An utterly ordinary and
rather naïve lead character.
• A balanced presentation of
that character, so that the reader
both laughs at him and comes to
see the world from his perspective.
There may be conflict
between these two positions.
• The diary format (and its
associated confessional tone).
• And it's perhaps worth
pointing out that a truly
Pooterish character – with his
self-importance, chagrined
pride, and general foolishness -
is almost always male. Carrie
5