The Quest of the Simple Life
William J. Dawson
A Modern English Rendering
First published 1907 · Lucid Classics edition 2026 · 142 pages
Original and Lucid edition, side by side
Original text
For a considerable number of years I had been a resident in London, which city I regarded alternately as my Paradise and my House of Bondage. I am by no means one of those who are always ready to fling opprobrious epithets at London, such as 'a pestilent wen,' a cluster of 'squalid villages,' and the like; on the contrary, I regard London as the most fascinating of all cities, with the one exception of that city of Eternal Memories beside the Tiber. But even Horace loved the olive-groves of Tivoli more than the far-ranged splendours of the Palatine; and I may be pardoned if an occasional vision of green fields often left my eye insensitive to metropolitan attractions.
This is a somewhat sonorous preface to the small matter of my story; but I am anxious to elaborate it a little, lest it should be imagined that I am merely a person of bucolic mind, to whom all cities or large congregations of my fellow-men are in themselves abhorrent. On the contrary I have an inherent love of all cities which are something more than mere centres of manufacturing industry. The truly admirable city secures interest, and even passionate love, not because it is a congeries of thriving factories, but rather by the dignity of its position, the splendour of its architecture, the variety and volume of its life, the imperial, literary, and artistic interests of which it is the centre, and the prolongation of its history through tumultuous periods of time, which fade into the suggestive shadows of antiquity. London answers perfectly to this definition of the truly admirable city. It has been the stage of innumerable historic pageants; it presents an unexampled variety of life; and there is majesty in the mere sense of multitude with which it arrests and often overpowers the mind.
Lucid Classics
I lived in London for years. Some days it felt like paradise. Most days it felt like a prison. I'm not the kind of person who calls the place a plague-pit or a clump of slums. The opposite. London is the most fascinating city in the world, with one exception: Rome. But even Horace loved the olive groves of Tivoli more than the splendors of the Palatine, so I'll be forgiven if a flash of green fields sometimes blinded me to whatever the city had to offer.
That's a grand opening for a small story. I'm laboring the point because I don't want to be taken for a country bumpkin who hates any crowd of his fellow humans. I love cities, as long as they're more than overgrown factory floors. The cities worth loving earn it not by being piles of thriving industry but by the dignity of their setting, the architecture, the variety and sheer volume of life inside them, the political and literary and artistic currents running through them, and the long unbroken history fading back into antiquity. London fits exactly. It's been the stage for countless historic moments. The variety of life there is unmatched. And there's a kind of majesty in the sheer pressure of its crowds that grabs the mind and often overwhelms it.
Original text
In the meantime a circumstance had occurred which was of great importance to me. Some enterprising spirits had started a new weekly local paper, and--mirabile dictu--they actually contemplated a literary page! With a faith in suburban culture, so unprecedented as to be almost sublime, these daring adventurers proposed giving their readers reviews of books, literary gossip, and general information about the doings of eminent writers. They offered the work to me at the modest honorarium of two pounds a week, and were willing to give me a three years' agreement. They were frank enough to acknowledge that their journal was likely to die of 'superiority to its public,' long before the three years were over; but, barring this disaster, they gave me assurance of regular employment.
This was the very thing for me. One could write about books anywhere. I thankfully closed with the offer and began to study the ha'-penny evening papers with assiduity, in order to learn the craft of manufacturing biographies of living authors.
Lucid Classics
Around this time, something happened that mattered a great deal to me. A few enterprising people had launched a new local weekly, and incredibly they were planning a literary page. Their faith in suburban culture was almost sublime in its recklessness. They were going to give their readers book reviews, literary gossip, and news about the doings of well-known writers. They offered me the work for the modest sum of £260 a week, with a three-year contract. They were honest enough to admit the paper would probably die of being too good for its audience long before three years were up. But barring that, I had steady work.
This was exactly what I needed. You can write about books anywhere. I accepted gratefully and set about studying the cheap evening papers with diligence, learning the craft of cranking out biographies of living authors.
Contents
- The House of Bondage
- Getting the Best Out of Life
- Getting a Living, and Living
- Earth-Hunger
- Health and Economics
- In Search of the Picturesque
- I Find My Cottage
- Buying Happiness
- How We Lived
- Neighbourship
- The Wounds of a Friend
- Am I Right?
- The City of the Future