Welch: Journals

by Denton Welch

In 1935, Welch, an English art student of 20, was hit by a car in an accident that curtailed his career as a painter and precipitated his death 13 years later. In the interim, Welch redirected his talents to writing novels (three of which have recently been reprinted), a journal and these short stories. Though he credited the accident with having saved him from becoming "a precious young man in a gallery," preciousness and an antic imagination couple in his writing in an annoying way. Eccentric aristocrats, brooding laborers, precocious children and passive yet predatory young women are summoned up in brilliant if febrile images, only to be allotted great dollops of adolescent loneliness, more reflective of the author's sensibility than their own. Whenever possible, their costumes are allowed to slip, revealing other aspects of Denton Welch himself: his sensitivity, snobbery, sexual ambiguity and, sadly, his avid appetite for a life that was slipping away.

Genres: Memoir, Queer, LGBT, Nonfiction

378 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1952

About the author

Maurice Denton Welch was an English-American writer and painter, admired for his vivid prose and precise descriptions.

Reviews

[Yves S · Rating 5 out of 5]

I am always up for a treat, and so, sometimes, I treat myself with a book by Denton Welch.

Welch is a great writer whose reputation and popularity, in my opinion, do not match his talent.

Rarity makes a treat more of a treat and it is, coincidentally, quite difficult to find Welch’s books these days, although Enitharmon Press has recently (in the early 2000s) done a wonderful job of republishing many of Welch’s books in very beautiful editions.

But here, the copy I have read, is a French version of his journals published by Plon in the 1950s, translated and prefaced by Celia Bertin.

We are dealing here with a writer's journal. Obvious you will say, but by this I mean that these diaries are full of the ups and downs that are an integral part of the life of an artist: The excitement when he receives Edith Sitwell's letters of encouragement, his meeting with her, the contact with his publishers, the joy when his texts are popular, the anxiety and fear of no longer being able to write as well as he used to, his fears of disappointing his admirers, the moments when he says to himself that his texts are worthless etc... in short, all these worries, the apprehension to know how his writings will be received seems to me to be the essence of this journal, a need to lay these worries on paper.

What is unique in Welch’s style, which is rather strange and somewhat truly amazing; is the way Welch is able to make very insignificant facts of his daily life so interesting. It is really, I think, a peculiarity of this author and I agree with Edmund White when he says: "Denton Welch is one of those mysterious writers who are always interesting...like Colette and Jean Rhys, Welch has the power to generate interest out of the most meagre materials".

This makes the reading of the journals really enjoyable, all the descriptions of his walks, the details of his picnics, the places he visits and his taste for objects and places joined with his hugely developed knowledge of styles "a small Georgian pediment in the worst taste", and he is certainly not forgiving for a lack of taste in a building or an object, and one wonders what he would make of the 21st century world.

And I did wonder. For example, when his wanderings bring him to West Malling, in Kent, where he tries to visit the ruined tower which stands near this little village. Incidentally, I happen to know this place a bit and this tower is still standing there today. However, I am afraid that if Welch was to come back in 2023 he would be somewhat horrified by what he would see. Of course, the tower is still there but also a four-lane carriageway and a roundabout that have been built immediately at the foot of the promontory where the tower stands and behind has raised a fairly soulless and shapeless urban and residential concept, a type of small town where housing, offices and shops have all been built together so that the residents do not need to go anywhere else. All these, I am afraid, no longer invites to explore the countryside. No longer would one envisage a little country bike ride or a little bucolic picnic on the heights of West Malling, such as Welch used to enjoy them. And to complete it all the M20 (the motorway linking London to Folkestone) passes less than a kilometre away along with the Eurostar line.

The period of the diary covers the second world war and the immediate post-war period, and it is striking to see how totally detached Welch is from the events that are bruising and destroying the world around him, we have here the figure of the writer, in his own dreaming (and privileged) world, careless in the face of the surrounding events such as the Nazi’s V2s passing over his head during one of his picnics.

I found Celia Bertin's translation very, very good, very fluid. I was reading passages in English from other books by Denton Welch at the same time and I could find the same rhythm and the same style, full of his elegant Britishness which, in my opinion, is essential for a good Welch's translation. I think that modernizing Welch would spoil the charm of his style, that unique style which may be the secret of this mysterious thing that Edmund White talks about. It is perhaps this very Britishness in the style, a tad precious and pretentious, which helps make something interesting out of all the boiled eggs, the hazelnut paste and all the jams consumed during the numerous picnics Welch is recording in his journals.


The second half of the diary is also very good even if the subjects of literature and the English literary milieu are less discussed and the picnics less frequent. But by then the disease had taken over. Welch died in 1948, aged 33 from long term complications of a serious cycling accident when he was 20. This end-of-life entries earned us some very sad and touching pages.

In conclusion it is, as always with Welch, a very charming book, with a truly unique style from an author who would rightly deserve to be better known.

[Rosamund Taylor · Rating 5 out of 5]

Written between 1942 and 1948, this journals cover the last years of Denton's short life. The earlier years described here explore Denton's successes as a young writer, coupled with his loneliness, and the intense pleasure he takes in antiques and things of beauty. Denton is also constantly struggling with injuries he acquired following an accident in 1935, including gradual kidney failure. He writes of his frustration and rage at the ways in which his life has been curtailed. The last few years, during which Denton became more and more acutely ill, are harder to read, as it is difficult to read this unique intelligence struggling against an early death. Having read Denton's three novels, I found these journals marked by a similar lively narrative style, and Denton's relish for the beauty of the world. I became very fond of Denton as I read -- funny, angry, bitchy, quick-witted and deeply sensitive, he shines in these pages, and I found myself grieving his loss.

[Ferris · Rating 4 out of 5]

I drew out my reading of these journals, because I didn't want them to end. I got sadder the closer it got to where I knew Denton would die at 33.
His descriptions of buildings, bike rides, and the food he took on his picnics are a great reminder of how much there is to appreciate in daily life. I loved his earnestness and sensitivity. It was also interesting to get a glimpse of what it was like to be gay in 1940's England. Knowing how few people have read these journals compared to better-known authors made being one of the few even more enjoyable. Like sharing a secret with the writer.

[David Seligman · Rating 5 out of 5]

Possibly out of print now but look on Amazon or in second hand bookshops. 2015 is the centenary of Denton's birth. He was at the Goldsmith's School of Art and set to become a brilliant artist. However aged 19 he was involved in a serious bicycle accident that ruined his health and he died in 1948 after writing a few novels and these memoirs between 1942 and 8. They document wartime, his delight at simple rural sights
like bluebell woods and small antiques. He loved nothing better than to pack up a couple of sandwiches and to walk off into the woods for a delightful day's repose. Eccentric and typically English, after reading the memoirs I feel should we have met we would have become great friends

[Gareth Schweitzer · Rating 5 out of 5]

A delight!

[Jeff · Rating 2 out of 5]

Denton Welch's Journals are not essential even for the most dedicated fan of his autobiographical fiction, but they're an interesting read anyway. Welch was an uncompromisingly honest writer, and his journals reveal him at his most uncensored, expressing both the beautiful and the ugly parts of his personality.

At his worst, he's hard to sympathize with, as he spends an inordinate amount of time speculating as to which of his acquaintances are likely to remember him in their wills, and whether or not their bequests will be stingy. And then there's his ongoing dissatisfaction with everyone else's taste in everything from clothes to beverages to home furnishings.

At his best, he's a charming philosopher of ordinary life, informed by his status as an outsider who was not especially bitter about the difficulties he sometimes experienced as an invalid, a homosexual, and an unapologetic snob. The fiction is still the better read, but the Journals do add an undeniable dimension to the appreciation of this singular English writer.

[Harrison Williams · Rating 5 out of 5]

While I have read only this author's journals, I am looking forward to reading his novels and other works after reading this book. Welch died young -- only 33 -- in 1948, and left a legacy of a few works that were held in high regard at that time, as well as artwork that is in major museums, but his works are apparently not now widely read. His story is compelling, and you can't help but wonder what more he would have turned out. Living in England during WWII, and disabled because of a horrendous traffic accident, Welch provides a narrative of day-to-day life of those on the homefront, including his personal relationships and interaction with the English literati of that day. I have now purchased all his novels, as well as a few collections of his short stories and a biography and can't wait to get to them, but I had to purchase them through second-hand vendors, as they are not currently in active print.

[Caroline]

Very nice. Sampled, too much else on the stack to finish.