Joseph Witriol’s Journal – Part 34: Who was/is/will be a Jew?

Tuesday, 2nd February 1959, 11.10 p.m.

Thames & Hudson were evidently unable to find a competent translator for Beno Rothenberg’s Sinai book, and now want me to “report” on it for them. It seems almost certain that I shall get the commission, on my own terms of £3-3-0 a thou. The outlandish Arabic names (in Hebrew letters) present a difficulty. Moreover, on top of my Monday evening French class and Sunday morning NLJC class and – we  hope – a lusty infant, I shall be up to my eyebrows. Still, one must seize the opportunity.

MacGawan, the L.C.C. Divisional Inspector, passed me (observing me do a history lesson) for interview by an Inspector’s Panel at County Hall – in connection with my application for the Promotion List. I have had the interview; I don’t think I did badly in it, but am not entertaining any hopes. I missed my chance 5-6 years ago; at 46 I am a bit long in the tooth for a headship. Though surprisingly enough my age was not mentioned in the County Hall interview.

Have written out my “Who is a Jew” essay. It lacks the firm grip on the subject, the closely-reasoned argumentation, but frankly – I think it’s worth 10 guineas. The 1200-word limit was a great difficulty.

Edith now shoin neynter vee veiter, [see comment below] but we shall all be glad when she’s an em semeycha, hallelujah [Psalm 113:9].

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Joseph Witriol’s Journal – Part 33: Taxing times

Friday, 2nd January 1959. 11.20 a.m.

Writing this in Holloway Central Library, to be out of the way of Mrs Holland – who “obliges” for E [Edith Witriol] – and her little daughter.

Have kept my diet so far! Have also risen virtuously early. Outburst of tears from E. last night. She depressed after mauling at hospital and I out all day and failing to be “communicative” on my return. Very difficult. Had spat with Mum previously re income-tax demand. She wants to pay schedule A tax at standard rate, though her income is bona fide low enough for her to have to pay far less than the standard rate. But she doesn’t want to reveal her income (rent from tenants), etc. Very difficult, but still – abee gezinnt.

I see the J.C. [The Jewish Chronicle] is offering prizes for the best essay on “What is a Jew?” [sic – Who is a Jew? was the title]. Also very difficult – one must be careful to stick to the terms, I imagine, which are that one must put oneself in the place of a recipient of Ben Gurion’s letter to various Jewish scholars asking them to reply to the question: “What is a Jew?” [sic!] However the prizes: £50, £25 and £10 for each essay printed, are worth competing for. A pity this breaks just at the end of my holiday – perhaps will try to get to J.C. library on the last day.

Joseph Witriol’s Journal – Part 32: Otium cum dignitate – halevei!

Monday, 29th December 1958, 1.20p.m.

Christmas has gone and I am far too fat. 14st. 10 clothed (tweedy sports jacket, black slacks, pullover, woollen vest, long pants, old black Church shoes). Once more, I must try to diet. [illegible]1/1/59 – I find it impossible to “turn over a new leaf” in mid-stream, so to speak (we don’t half mix our metaphors, and pretty rusty metaphors, at that, don’t we Witriol? – why don’t you drop dead, H.L.? [Baudelaire’s hypocrite lecteur]).

Edith at the laundrette. I think we must get washing machine, but this, like so much else, involves problems – mundane problems, problems which should be no concern of mine. It seems a pretty verfehltes Leben, if, at my time of life, I haven’t got things so organised that the household mechanics don’t function smoothly, unnoticeably. The ideal of, if not otium at least one’s daily occupational stint with some dignitate to come home to, seems as far away from conversion to reality as ever. Not that it matters, really. The good, fighting life is more important than otium or dignitates (e.g. Rev. Michael Scott flying from Africa to picket the nuclear power station at Swoffham, letting himself be lifted bodily by police, refusing to undertake to cease his activity and so accepting imprisonment. I expect he could have had a comfortable living).

All this gallimatchkin [Yiddish?] is pointless – I would do better to save my space, using it only “for the record.” But what is there to record? We saw Me and the Colonel. Excellent. Danny Kaye as the humble, frightened Jew stranded in Paris just before the German occupation, forcing the dim, 12 mentality Polish aristocrat-colonel to do a deal with him in escaping. The two of them in an ancient Rothschild’s car; he singing anu olim artsa, the colonel trying to drown him in some Polish patriotic song. The colonel to his girls: In the cathedral of my heart there will always be a candle burning for you. Danny: In the synagogue of my heart here will always be a candle burning for you.

Christmas day at Sam’s with Mum, over-eating, listening to Queen’s speech on T.V. (she an excellent advert. for the monarchy, speaking clearly, unaffectedly, with dignity). Home by car-hire – £1. Yesterday Doreen, an ex-colleague of Edith’s, and husband Aubrey round “for tea” – and they stayed to supper. Painful; he silently smoking cigarette after cigarette, she nattering interminably about Furness Withy staff and her trip to N.Y. which she’d had on the firm.

Joseph Witriol’s Journal – Part 31: Procreation v annihalation

In this entry my father explains why he has written some words in an abbreviated form. I have reproduced them as written.

Tuesday, 23rd December 1958, 9.15 p.m.

Christmas is upon us. I think of the Christmases when we had the shop in the [Newington] Butts, and the December takings were about a quarter of the year’s total, I should think. The front room upstairs converted to an extra saleroom, traipsing to and from the shop itself to this room. In retrospect they seem almost “good” times, though in reality they were bitter enough. I “employed” by Mum. Perhaps I should have had the guts to break away and earn my own living. But it was not only the vis inertiae that kept me at home. I recollect quite clearly that in 1936/37 I could have gone to France as an assistant; it would have been invaluable experience for me. But I felt I could not leave Sam [his brother] to carry the baby – I had had four months in Grindelwald anyway. Anyway, there’s no point in musing on the remote past. What has been, has been.

A characteristic letter from Hugh Stubbs, the grandson of the Archbishop. It seems incredible that more than eighteen years have elapsed since we met in the 24 H.A.A. Tng. Regt. at Blackdown. I don’t know whether I have mentioned Hugh in these pages before; if not, I must try to write him up.

The obvious thing would be to read through this diary again carefully, so that I don’t have to waste time wondering whether I’m repeating myself, and, possibly, compile an index, of names if of nothing else. Wd be gd experience in indxg.

Meanwhile I am faced with a potential difficulty. I want to use this notebook for a) the period ending 31st December 1958 or b) the p. ending 31st Dec. 1959. If a) the book will be only two-thirds full, even with index. If b), and if I am to include an index, I shall have to cramp the 1959 entries. I think I will opt for b) and try to get more wordage in less space by using abbrvns and wrtg smll. (Must try to assim. Dutter’s Speedwriting [sic], a system of contracted longhand writing the book of which I picked up for a copper some time ago.)

The holidays are under way. I pretend the reason I’m not getting up any articles is that I must help E. [Edith Witriol, née Katz] with domestic chores. She is now very big and though her attitude to pregnancy is ambivalent — dislike of the irritation, heartburn, swollen-leg(s) and general slowing down of activity on the one hand, and radiant motherhood on the other — the uppermost feeling is obviously one of thrilledness. As for me, I remember recording a crack of George Moore’s that procreation was the one unforgivable sin, but that was of course because I thought it extremely unlikely at the time that I would ever be able to procreate. In point of fact, no time could be worse for the creation of new life than this present nuclear age, when sober, responsible people tell us that there is a distinct possibility that we may succeed in killing ourselves, all of us — if we’re lucky; if we’re less lucky, we may find ourselves suffering from the effects of radiation, amidst a wilderness of rubble. But of course, I couldn’t kid myself, had I deliberately abstained from parenthood, that I was doing so on grounds of conscience unless, indeed, I gave practical evidence of my concern by e.g., experiencing discomfort in the fight against nuclear bombing and expending as much money on trying to create a world fit for babies to be born into as I shall find myself spending on the baby (ies) that will, I hope, be born to us.

Anyway, all one can do now is hope that everything will pass off beshoolem, as my mother says, and do ones best for the children (!) that are born to us. My mother used to “curse” me ( but one shouldn’t take Yiddish curses seriously, perhaps) that I shd have chln like myself, and I have said I asked for nothing better. I wonder? Too big a subject to deal with now. (Perhaps I have been over pessimistic? “Genetic danger not so great?” is headline of article in to-day’s M.G.) Lion Feuchtwanger died on Sun. 21st. Sonntag rang me up to know if I could do an article on him (on L.F.). No, I could not find the books, gut them, quickly enough. I shall be satisfied if I can be a hack translator; junior can be the creative writer. But will he have the creative gift? I can’t see any reason why he should have.

Joseph Witriol’s Journal – Part 30: A tee-hee-hee and a fold-de-lol

This entry includes a correction footnote as made by my father, including the East Asian asterisk he used! The date of the correction shows he would re-read his entries from time to time.

Tuesday, 9th December, 1958; 9.30 p.m.

Have been reading previous entries in order to avoid repetition as far as possible. Somewhat depressed to-day, but mood clearing up, I think (at this particular instant – and I mean instant – there is silence in the front-room – except for the subdued roar of traffic, which doesn’t worry me – and the writing of this diary, once I do succeed in getting down to it, has a therapeutic effect). I must try to avoid these incapsulations, cultivate a style. (at 47, nearly! I can’t decapsulate myself. Yes, writing this diary is “therapy” as Dollinger said of his driving lessons. Dollinger the Reader at the NLJC [New Liberal Jewish Congregation] – gives me a lift home in his car most Sundays.

Talking of NLJC, one of my kids there asked if I would write an account of a story, saying, connected with the rabbis – I had asked them to do this for their test. Fair enough, really. I’ve always felt that the best way of showing kids how to do a composition on, say, “A Day at the Seaside” is to do one yourself.

Anyway, on Sunday morning I did tell the kids in my class to read quietly – which they did, reasonably so – while I did the test myself. Afterwards I gave my top-mark boys (17,16) my script to mark. We agreed on 18. As one of the markers said, I had failed to discuss the story or saying;  but, I pointed out, I had recounted the story accurately and my style was good.

Edith reclining in arm-chair, legs on another chair, consulting her cookery book; a picture, as I have had occasion to observe before, of domestic bliss. Dare I complain?

Possibly responsible for the mood of depression to which I have referred is the fact that I didn’t hear from Thames & Hudson. They wrote wanting to know if I would discuss translating a popular Hebrew work of archaeology with them. Michael Edwardes, quondam of Vallentine Mitchell had suggested me to them. When I had last seen M.E. the atmosphere had been rather tense. He had said the English of an “English” TS he had given me to “english” was not English. He was right, too. So I was agreeably surprised to find that he will still, apparently, speak favourably for me.

But more probably, the depression is inherent in the general situation and, in mild form, will be with me most days I am teaching. I can see no issue from the impasse: I am inefficient as a Primary School Teacher, and have missed the selective Secondary School bus. I put in for a Deputy Headship, with a feeling of resentment at the futility of doing so.

Howard Youngerwood‘s bar-mitsva the other day. Very enjoyable. To Golders Green shool, by public transport, on the Shabbes. Called up. Myer resplendent in topper in warden’s books.※ As some lady said to him, apparently; it was a change to see a handsome warden. He is handsome; tall, slim, legal-looking. His baldness is his Achilles’ tendon (why not say he’s bald? – you shut your trap, H.L). [my father regularly used this abbreviation for Baudelaire’s hypocrite lecteur] I made a good, carefully-prepared speech proposing the B.M.’s health; Mat Rosen made a not-so-good, unprepared – or rather, not carefully enough prepared – speech proposing the health of the B.M.’s parents. Ellis Lincoln, who sits next to H.Y. in shool, and was the big “catch” among [?missing words] made a fluent speech from a few jottings on a menu card. Howard played, the piano. He has appeared on I.T.V. A likeable kid, nevertheless. Well up in his Jewish studies, plays soccer, runs at school. I’ve had enough. Perhaps E. will make me coffee and cake. She replies with a tee-hee-hee and a fold-de-lol.

※ “Box” -31/12/67

Joseph Witriol’s Journal – Part 29: Ha! Pah! Bazaar

Sunday, November 23rd 1958, 3.50pm

A dies something-or-other to-day – no religion school, so I had a lie-in. The NLJC [New Liberal Jewish Congregation] used their shool for their annual bazaar. Autre temps, les mêmes moeurs  – Mrs Price, our new deputy-head (vice Mrs Hood, retired but now teaching half-time with us) spoke to the kids at assembly, about justifiable anger, and instanced Jesus’s driving out of the money-changers from the Temple. I expect Rabbi K. of the NLJC, would justify the stalls and the restaurant in his “Temple” by saying that the ark was partitioned off, but I’m not sure that this is a valid justification. In Orthodox Jewish congregations (and, I suspect, in the “English” progressive congregations), you might find a secular building used for religious purposes, e.g., a cinema used as a shool, or a shool hall used for services, but not the other way round. However – In meinem Reiche kann jeder selig werden nach seiner – I’ve just checked, the correct quotation is: In meinem Staate kann jeder nach seiner Façon selig werden.

Anyway, went to the Bazaar yesterday. They really had put in a tremendous amount of work into the thing. We didn’t get any metsee’es [bargains], but I think Edith enjoyed the bright lights and the bustle. I don’t complain myself – it’s the sort of scene one ought to be able to write up – the large, black-chiffoned gnädige Frau adjusting her lorgnette to find the price of a vase, then consulting the Herr in charge ( who told her a price above that of a larger vase, quite clearly marked, of obviously the same quality.)

Edith, nebbech [“poor thing”], has flopped off in the armchair – she’s been on her feet since 10 a.m., preparing lunch, washing up,washing her hair. We leave about six for Dinmore House [in Hackney, where Edith’s mother and brother lived]. How do/did people ever find time to read? I can’t, and yet I have no public life of any kind; seldom attend lectures, shows, parties, visit (but all this is relative). I’ll stop hackin a tcheynikk. [Yiddish, “banging a teapot”, i.e going on and on.]

Joseph Witriol’s Journal – Part 28: Heads and tales

Tuesday November 11th, 10.05 p.m.

The only comment I have to make on the significance of the date is, characteristically enough, I suppose, is* that I can’t get used to the idea of the two-minute silence being observed on the Sunday before the 11th and the poppies being on sale the Saturday before or earlier.

* E. [Edith Witriol] pointed out the tautology (23/11/56) – such a clever girl!

Changes at Hargrave [primary school]. Miss Hood retired at the end of last half-term. Replaced by Miss Price, a youngish efficient-looking woman with aggressive horn-rimmed specs and an elocutionary voice. Heppell sprang a surprise on us – he had put in for and got another headship, presumably of a larger school. Miss P. is applying for the headship here. Must get used to the idea of a woman head younger than myself. Excellent fodder for the masochism. Hale, too – who has a graded post with us – has got a deputy headship right on his doorstep in Finchley, after being beaten by Miss P. for the Hargrave deputy headship (Heppell played the dirty on him by leading him to believe he stood a fair chance, or rather-better-than-fair-chance. The advert in the L.C.C. Bulletin was for man or woman, with the man’s qualifications custom-built for Hale, but it seems obvious that with no woman holding a graded post on Hargrave’s staff – after Miss Hood’s retirement – the woman candidate would be preferred to a man of equal or even slightly higher ability).

What else. At the end of the Neila service, taking a cup of tea in the hall – took me four/five years to find out about this, quite by chance – I asked Zalkind Stalbow’s grandson (Sammy’s son) where his grandfather was. He had been knocked down by a lorry Erev [the day before]Yom Kippur. He 80+. He was unconscious for several days, I gather. Frankly, I looked in the J.C. [The Jewish Chronicle] obituary columns. However, he made what must have been a remarkable recovery and I visited him at Hornsey Hospital. He said it would be safer for me to write down what I had to say, as the accident had affected his hearing. What did I think of Ben Gurion’s saying to the Jews of the Diaspora we want your money but you mustn’t tell us how to run our State?

A Bar-Mitsva at Selby’s the other Sunday. Benny Miranda’s younger boy. Slightly nauseating. Champagne, liqueurs, cigars, cabaret – vulgar Jewish comedian (though I expect I shall not be above trying to retail [sic?] some of his jokes) and shrill songsters. I saw three photographers “shooting” the boy in his tallis [prayer shawl].

The occasion was memorable for a reconciliation with our long “lost” Balin cousins. I don’t know what our relationship is, or rather what the correct name for it is – second cousins, 1st cousins once removed? I append what I believe to be the tree, so that I may have it handy for reference purposes. Perhaps I may be able to get someone to state authoritatively how the relationship is described. The “rift” started long pre-1939. I don’t know the origin. My mother became broighess with Mrs B. – so Sam [Joseph Witriol’s brother] and I had to follow suit. We met at Simchas,Shivas, but never exchanged a word.

Who's related to who: Witriol and Balin

Who’s related to who: Witriol and Balin

What is the term to express a) the relationship between my mother and “Mr Balin” (Zalman) and b) Mick Balin and myself?

Sam Balin had been a grammar school master in the provinces for many years, had recently come to Hasmonean (I think that’s it – in Edgware [sic!]) school. He came up to mum and — communications were restored. More about all this if I have time later. It’s been a “good” evening – a leisurely meal, Edith quiet as a mouse writing letters — but, it’s 11pm and one doesn’t want to slog away at this.

Read H.E. Bates’ Darling Buds of May. Excellent short picaresque comedy. Practically read Waugh’s Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold. Good short fantasy (I don’t blame these lads for preferring to write a 40,000 to a 80,000 book). Slight anti-Semitic touches one should note for the Jew-in-English-literature (Pinfold, echt-Englisch, has delusions in which his persecutors refer to him as a Jew, Peinfeld, who bought out an English farmer whose ancestors had worked the land for centuries).

Joseph Witriol’s Journal – Part 27: On a treadmill to Muswell Hill

Thursday, Oct. 23rd 1958, 9.10pm

Feeling mildly depressed. Probably end-of-half-term feeling. The class is a bit down-getting. One E.S.N. kid – a fat, harmless lump; the others very dim. There’s only 28 of them, and I seem to get my three free periods a week reglar [as spelt], but it’s increasingly becoming a treadmill. Seems difficult to realise I’ve done 9 years of it. I suppose I must set my teeth to another 18½ years. The trouble is, for this type of class one needs to be younger, rather than older. And – this is the last time I shall twist this particular dagger – one needs aptitude (for art or handiwork or music) and training (not “or training” – non-existent aptitudes can’t be trained into being) which I haven’t got.

I don’t know how I managed when Edith was still at work. I now lead a pampered existence – meals waiting for me, no shopping, cleaning to do. But the “leisure” hasn’t enabled me to get any kind of “work” done at all. I suppose if I’d had a commission to do I would have done it.

E. mending my trousers. Absolute silence – electric heater off to eliminate hum it makes when on, sod it – I feel a bit of a swine. The poor girl obviously needs – particularly in her condition – cheering, entertaining.

She’s a good girl. Bought a 14½ gn. nylon “simulation fur” coat – couldn’t have been more thrilled if it had been a 1,000 guinea mink. Incidentally, she clicked for close on £200 from her firm, in addition to about £125 returned superannuation contributions – jolly D of them. E. now has about £500, including £100 which I think should keep, in principle, as a “Dinmore House” [Hackney council flat, where her ?mother lived] reserve. If I had the £800 or so I had in 1951 – I can’t remember whether this included or excluded £500 which Mum gave me, being refund of my allowances to her from about 1945 – we could get a house of sorts. If I had £2,000 I could, with Edith’s £400, get a modest 3 bedroom house in Golders green decorated and furnished to the comfortable, but certainly not opulent standards of Sam & Lily’s [brother and sister-in-law] place.

Probably I shall be able to get £750 from Mum & borrow £250 – 500 from the bank and get a dingy sort of place in Muswell Hill or the drabber part of Highgate.

If one can go by size, and Edith’s family’s tendencies, I shall be a father of twins. Would have been alright 20 years ago, but at 47 I feel a bit too old for this sort of caper. (Forgive me, twins, if ever you read this; your dad does love you and wants you to be happy). (And if he may re-open the bracket, he wants you to have the will-to-work he lacks; if you have it, it should enable you to get somewhere, even with a Muswell-Hill-his-father-was-an-unsuccessful-primary-schoolteacher background.)

Joseph Witriol’s Journal – Part 26: No Asch in Yehoshua

Tuesday, October 1st 1958, 8.25 p.m.

The first day of Edith’s “retirement”. I called for her at her office yesterday. her colleagues had presented her with layette-stuff; very moving, really. We celebrated in a mild way by dining at the Strand palace. E. naturally revels in her new-found leisure, though it remains to be seen whether she will revel quite so much as time advances and she finds herself “confined to barracks” and having to work to a tight budget. The change has been a relief to me, too. To-night I was able to listen to a talk on the wireless, make this entry and I stand a fair chance of being able to listen-in for an additional hour and have a bath. Under the old dispensation I would have had to go to the launderette (which to-day Edith was able to do in the morning), do all the washing-up (to enable Edith to get on with the ironing, which she will now be able to do in daylight hours) and so on.

I started taking my French class at the Clapton & Kingsland Evening Institute the Monday before last. Thirty-one students! Which means the class should last throughout the session. Only 30/- a night; probably leaves me with about 17/6 after deducting tax, fares, teas; but I have nothing more lucrative with which to occupy the time.

I “preached” at the kids’ services on the Yomim Nowroim [“The High Holidays”] at Highgate Shool. Difficult to know what to say to them. They were an awkward age group; the oldest – one or two only – about 13; too young to give ’em much meat. Must try to work up a collection of “stories.” The young chap who “takes” the service ( for a fee, I have reason to believe – why not, I take a fee for my Sunday-school teaching) was rather weak, unfortunately; couldn’t sing, or even read Hebrew at all decently (he read, or tried to read, Israeli, which would have been all right if he could have done it).

My translation from the German of a – rather drippy – article by Max Brod and also, from the Hebrew, of a quite intelligent article by Yehoshua Bar-Yossef appeared in the last issue of The Jewish Quarterly I was given full translator’s credits. Unfortunately my translation of the latter article, which was largely a complaint about the poor quality of Hebrew-English translating, was rushed (I did it all – about 1500 words English text – on the Friday preceding the Saturday on which we left for Crikvenica) and could have been better. I had no time even to type my rough draft; anyway the printed text has elementary grammatical errors like: “translators of sufficient high standards” which, whether originally my fault or not, will not redound to my credit. I’d never heard of Yehoshua Bar-Yossef before. Apparently he’s a well-known Israeli author, & writes in Yiddish, too. He complains Hebrew has no translator, as Sholem Asch had, of the calibre of Maurice Samuel. The answer’s obvious enough. Let’s have a Hebrew Asch, and I won’t let him down!

Joseph Witriol’s Journal – Part 25: Gynecomastia in Crikvenica

September 3rd 1958, 8.40pm

Returned a few days ago from a holiday at Crikvenica, Yugoslavia organised by the British-Yugoslav Friendship Society. The holiday cannot be described as having been a success. I didn’t get sleepers, as an economy measure, with the result we spent bad nights going and coming. E.[Edith Witriol], although strongly left-wing, surprisingly intolerant of poor sanitary conditions in our hotel and elsewhere. I must confess I found it a bit off-putting myself to arrive, about 9 p.m., after a 36-hr. journey (the last leg of which by coach at break-neck speed along winding roads E. found more upsetting than all the rest of the journey) at a hotel without being able to wash, even. To crown all, our room overlooked the hotel terrace, on which a noisy orchestra blared and crooned away till 1-2 a.m. every night.

The composition of the party, too, did not help. There were a number of uninhibited sons-of-the-people whose loud laughter and shouting drove one round the bend. The most congenial spirit of the lot was one Wilcox who revealed himself, en passant, as Organiser of Adult Education for Kent, but I didn’t have much contact with him until the homeward journey.

The Society did provide some little contact for us with Yugoslavs, but not enough, of course, to provide a basis for judging conditions in Yugoslavia. We visited a health centre and the equivalent of the Town Hall, at which the Vice-President (of the Workers’ Committee? Citizens’ Committee? Combined Committee? – I am afraid I didn’t absorb it all properly; the interpreter, a spivvy local was pretty ghastly), & the Secretary (full-time official?) welcomed us with slivovitz, on a blazing morning!, biscuits and cigarettes. Both these men seemed to exude integrity, an honest-man’s-the-noblest-work-of-God (or the evolutionary principle, I suppose) but – irrationally – I found myself turning against them when Wilcox mentioned on the journey back that the Ustaši (did Wilcox say “Croats,” and did this stimm me against “Croats”?) had massacred Serbs, Jews and gypsies. It’s all very difficult. I deliberately avoid Germany and Austria because, as a Jew, I do not want to be on German/Austrian soil or speak to Germans/Austrians if I can avoid it, but Wilcox’s chance remark made me wonder if Croats were just as bad. (Do Serbs hate Croats? I don’t think there were many Serbs in Crikvenica – but here again I’m merely going by the fact that one man I managed to communicate with said he came from Zagreb.) I suppose the only thing to do, really, is to go to Israel, become an Israeli and then go anywhere in the world and say “But we’re not Jews!” (as the late Simon Rawidowicz records a couple of Israeli girls saying to an English landlady who “didn’t take in Jews”).

The mood is of mild depression, but – so it is – one merely hopes there will be nothing worse. the fault is in oneself, anyway. Probably if I had spent as much time on studying the pools as I have on this diary I would have cleaned up enough to get out of the seedy atmosphere here. But I seem to be incapable of making any serious effort – drift with the tide – drudge – futile. I lack the will to persevere in the diet I had started. I feel the fat accumulating, I waddle, I dislike running, I am altogether unprepossessing (in fact even E., whose love for me, fortunately, renders her blind to my defects, suggests I ought not to show one snap she took of me in my bathing trunks. Talk about gynecomastia! The long word has made me feel better! I wish I could trace the bit in Nordau‘s book on degeneration in which he says the love of long words is a form of sexual perversion (I have the book, perhaps I’ll give myself ten minutes to skim through it now).