Excerpts from diaries—Arnold Bennett to Andy Warholby Ian Irvine / December 31, 2016 / Leave a comment
31st December 1899
Arnold Bennett writes in his journal:
“This year I have written 335,340 words, grand total: 228 articles and stories (including four instalments of a serial of 30,000-7,500 words each) have actually been published. Also my book of plays—Polite Farces. I have written six or eight short stories not yet published or sold. Also the greater part of a 5,000-word serial—Love and Life for Tillotson, which begins publication about April next year. Also the whole draft (80,000 words) of my Staffordshire novel Anna Tellwright. My total earnings were £592 3s. 1d [the equivalent of about £200,000 today], of which sum I have yet to receive £72 10s.”
31st December 1870
Edmond de Goncourt, in Paris during the siege by the Prussian army, writes in his journal:
“In the streets of Paris, death passes death, the undertaker’s waggon drives past the hearse. Outside the Madeleine today I saw three coffins, each covered with a soldier’s greatcoat, with a wreath of immortelles on top.
“Out of curiosity I went into Roos’s, the English Butcher’s shop on the Boulevard Hausmann, where I saw all sorts of weird remains. On the wall, hung in a place of honour, was the skinned trunk of young Pollux, the elephant at the Zoo; and in the midst of nameless meats and unusual horns, a boy was offering some camel’s kidneys for sale.
“The master-butcher was perorating to a group of women: ‘It’s forty francs a pound for the fillet and the trunk … Yes, forty francs … You think that’s dear? But I assure you I don’t know how I’m going to make anything out of it. I was counting on three thousand pounds of meat and he has only yielded two thousand, three hundred … The feet, you want to know the price of the feet? It’s twenty francs … For the other pieces, it ranges from eight francs to forty … But let me recommend the black pudding. As you know, the elephant’s blood is the richest there is. His heart weighed twenty-five pounds … And there’s onion, ladies, in my black pudding.’