Lost Happiness

 At an auction last week a lot of letters from Diana, Princess of Wales were sold. Among them a thank-you letter following the birth of her son Harry seems especially poignant, with its description of how much his older brother seemed to love him:

The Uncaring Society

It appears it is not only the makers of butter dishes who can't be bothered any more. After posting about my suspicion that there is less and less thought given to ensuring things are made as beautiful as possible nowadays, I saw this:

I am not going to argue that even older British pillar-boxes are the most beautiful things ever made, but I do believe there was a bit more decorative grace on display in those made in an earlier era. If you search on Instagram, you will find many examples. There is also this nice blogpost, which shows you a George VIII (v rare) pillar-box in Gibraltar:

A Tale of Two Butterdishes

More than a decade ago we bought a handpainted terracotta butter dish at a market in Hungary. A few years after that something fell from a high shelf onto the dish part of it, shattering it. 

I went back to the market where we'd bought the dish, to see if I could find a pretty new one. There was nothing anywhere near as nice for sale. I pieced the broken bits of the dish together and saw that there was the name of the maker on the bottom. I looked online and discovered the maker had gone mad and decided to make things that looked as if they were part of a Disney franchise. 

I glued the dish together and we went on using it, even though it looked almost as bad as the many things in my grandmother's house that at some point had been broken and then not only glued but stapled together with exposed rivets. At least our mended butter dish didn't have visible rivets - but it was (is) still a bit of a mess, except when photographed from flattering angles.

Yesterday I decided to go to a folkloric shop I often pass, to see if I could find a replacement for our butter dish. I did - sort of. 

It is a butter dish made by the same company that made the original one. They have reverted to their earlier designs. 

This new butter dish cost a fantastic amount and, while I will use it, I will also go on using the old one until it has completely disintegrated. This is because, even in its broken state, it is so much nicer than its modern cousin. 

And the reason it is so much nicer is because someone took greater care in making the original butter dish. Someone decided not to cut corners. 

For instance, this is the handle of the lid on the old one:

And this is the handle of the lid on the new one:

At some point, someone thought: "Why bother with that ten minutes extra, painting the lines on the handle. Just leave it. It's not worth it."

The same decision was made when it came to the rest of the decoration. Several lines and quite a bit of painstaking dotted decoration have been eliminated. The new dish cost a great deal more than the old one and yet half has much effort went into it. 

For years, I've thought this article by James Meek was the best exposition of the way in which greed has made things worse in daily life and become the thing that creates change but no positive progress. But now I wonder if our two butter dishes demonstrate the story better. 

Although perhaps they are a symptom of something that may be even more dangerous for a civilisation: the waning of craftsmanship - and tangible evidence that fewer and fewer people take pleasure in taking pains.

Too Poor for Proust

I don't know what it is with me and questionnaires but just lately they've been coming my way in droves. Well, not so much droves as more than one. Enough anyway to make me wonder if I really enjoy reading novels or poetry or watching drama or doing anything really quite as much as I enjoy the apparently straight forward, to the point nature of questionnaires, their attempt to sketch out a whole individual via the asking of a dozen or so questions and the wonderful enigma that each questionnaire actually produces, as every answer only creates more questions, at least for me.

Here is a poor man's Proust questionnaire with replies allegedly given by the film maker Tarkovsky in 1970. I'm not totally convinced by his idea of a woman's driving force, but I admit I've never made strange and extraordinary films relying on long, long single shots, so I will bow to him for now:

Proust Again

I haven't tackled Proust again (for earlier efforts see here and here and here and for my liberation see here). 

In all honesty, I probably never will tackle Proust again. I think I understand now that some authors suit some people and some authors suit other people and there is little explanation for this, beyond the differences in human temperament. 

Proust is extraordinary, but not the kind of extraordinary that interests me. I could enlarge and start to speculate about the rise of narcissism - or at least an unbalanced interest in the self - and his influence, but, since I haven't finished reading him, I could be way off the mark.

The only thing I am certain of is that I am temperamentally unsuited to a man who chose to bang on quite so nauseatingly about hawthorn. 

Nevertheless when I came across a reference to Bernard Pivot and his use of the Proust questionnaire I was intrigued. I can't remember where I first read about it but a quick search of the internet revealed this slavishly adoring article about Proust's own responses to the questionnaire, which was a kind of parlour game in his time (his answer to Question 1. convinces me I will never be able to look at his work without a faint touch of nausea, and his answer to Question 7. reinforces that new conviction) and this.

I think the questionnaire falls under the category of "Quite Fun", which, for me, is more than "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu" will ever do. 

Times Past, Times Future

I loved reading Simon Hoggart. He used to make me laugh. I think this piece by him, published on 15 May 1997 may be educative reading for MPs in the current government, to help them prepare for what is to come at the start of the next parliament.

Hoggart's line about survivors of the Titanic is brilliant:

"Ten minutes before the start, half a dozen Tories were facing the massed, crammed, stuffed and stifled ranks of the government benches. It was as if we'd gatecrashed the annual reunion of Titanic survivors, and they'd invited the iceberg to show there were no hard feelings."

Ingrained Conservatism

In Britain recently there has been a confected show of outrage at the fact that an old club called the Garrick has for many years refused to admit women. When a woman pointed this out in the press, all sorts of portly men in the public eye who have belonged to the club for decades decried the discrimination in unison. In doing so, they demonstrated they were either utter hypocrites or total fools who had never realised the absence of women about the place was due to the club's strict rules. 

Personally I'd be far happier to know my husband was having fun in a club that was entirely male. I wouldn't have to worry that some ambitious high-flying female, realising suddenly that she is 41 and needs a husband fast if she is to achieve the item on her bucket list called having a baby, may be doing her best to prise him from our marriage. 

But I am just irredeemably conservative on all subjects. I realised this once and for all when I saw this item about Morris dancing becoming dominated by women and felt extremely sad. I am a woman - I ought to be pleased my own sex can participate in things previously closed to us, but I'm not. I hate it. 

To show that even I can, if I really try, go against the grain of my hatred of novelty, I will use a newly minted phrase that I loathe so much it almost makes me sick:

"My bad."