Towards the End of the Morning (Valancourt 20th Century Classics)

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A central theme of the book is Dyson's struggle against what he sees as encroaching entropy – indeed, the book was published in the United States under the title Against Entropy. Their work lives are dull and their personal lives are dull. But what lifts this novel above the average is the writing; it has an ingenious, imaginative, glimmering edge to it, often most serious even when it is being so damn funny. It has a somewhat skewed approach to approaching the world through metaphor that so many other books of this author’s generation have (I’m thinking in particular of Malcolm Bradbury’s ‘The History Man’ here) where it’s almost like certain images come to dictate the existence of the characters beyond what we would normally expect in a realistic novel. It’s not only that metaphor is defined by the subjective experiences of the characters here, but it’s as though the literary device is an experience which is waiting out there in the world for these slightly dull and perfectly ordinary men to stumble across it.

The story begins with a premature and premonitory nightfall, and I suppose that with hindsight the book does look a bit like a valediction: though in the case of Fleet Street itself, as it turned out, the darkness that settled in was not going to lift in time for lunch.It isn't really a book about fleet street. It is just based in fleet street. I guess the literary writers of fleet street brayed so much about it in the 70s that it is now pigeon holed there. Bob felt himself swooping down again into the great soft darkness of sleep. Somewhere down there he stubbed himself against an ill-defined but hard mass of fact, and brought himself up to the surface to examine it…’

Some review or other of this book mentioned "Keep the Aspidistra Flying" by Orwell. That is a good reference point for this work. The cover review quotes of this book mention jokes and humour. I can see the parts of the book where I'm supposed to laugh. I managed a couple of stifled grunts. I wonder if my reaction to the book is my own cynicism or simply the gap in the cultures of the 1970s where things were somehow still "jolly" and 2017 marked by war all the time, the growing gap between the people and the capitalist class and the shift to the populist right. The book was written when the defeat of fascism in Europe was still fresh in the memory and post-modern capitalism was still a young beast.The Observer drank in Auntie's, though I've forgotten whether it had any other name, and even who Auntie was. The Guardian had a foot in two camps. One was the Clachan, a rather undistinguished Younger's house grimly decorated with samples of the different tartans, where we drank our best bitter watched by a mysterious official of one of the print unions, who sat on his own at a corner of the bar every day from opening to closing time, wearing dark glasses and referred to in respectful whispers, but speaking to no one, apparently paid by either union or management just to sit there and drink all day.

Mrs. Mounce is an added complication to the picture (she ‘holds a cigarette in her special, sophisticated way, with the whole flat of the hand upraised beside the face, as if for a one handed salaam’) and when Tessa arrives in London to visit the man she loves, there is a stranger in the apartment and she is very scared that this could be a mistress…which she had tried to be for quite some time (Mrs. Mounce). A few terminal cases were still coughing their last in odd corners. The Daily Herald up in Endell Street, being slowly suffocated by its affiliation to the TUC; down in Bouverie Street the poor old News Chronicle, the decent Liberal paper that everyone liked but no one read, and on which I had been brought up, kept going by its rather more successful little brother, the Evening Star. On the masthead of the Chronicle lingered the titles of a whole succession of defunct and forgotten papers that had been interred in it over the years, like the overgrown names of the departed accumulating on a family mausoleum: the Daily News, the Daily Chronicle, the Daily Dispatch, the Westminster Gazette, the Morning Leader. I'd scarcely been there a year when the whole vault finally collapsed, taking the Star and all the old names with it. The real life, though, was in the narrow lanes just off the street, in Fetter Lane and Shoe Lane to the north, and Whitefriars Street and Bouverie Street to the south - in the grimy, exhausted-looking offices of the Mail and the Mirror, the News of the World, the Evening News and the Evening Standard. The Observer, to which I moved in 1962, occupied a muddled warren down in Tudor Street.This fabulous, but alas forgotten (it only has a few lines on Wikipedia) Magnum opus describes the shenanigans, procrastination, heavy drinking, leisurely pace of the life of journalists decades ago, in the glory (is that the appropriate term to use I wonder) days of Fleet Street, before the catastrophic years when many have been eliminated from the market, leaving tabloids and some extremist media outfits (Murdoch empire) to rule the arena…