Evelyn Waugh uncharitably once characterized his seven-year-old eldest son as "without intellectual, aesthetic, or spiritual interest", none of which holds true about this long-awaited and well-received autobiography.A self-confessed "product of the bourgeois cultural elite" and guerrilla campaigner against both sides in Britain's class war, Waugh is now comfortably establ
Evelyn Waugh uncharitably once characterized his seven-year-old eldest son as "without intellectual, aesthetic, or spiritual interest", none of which holds true about this long-awaited and well-received autobiography.A self-confessed "product of the bourgeois cultural elite" and guerrilla campaigner against both sides in Britain's class war, Waugh is now comfortably established as his country's best-loved practitioner of what he calls "the vituperative arts". How he achieved this prominence is an unceasingly entertaining narrative: his difficult relationship with his father; his education first at a public school with the Dickensian name of Downside and then at post-Brideshead Oxford; his National Service in the army, during which he severely wounded himself with a machine gun; and his early career as a novelist and then as a Fleet Street journalist and columnist for the notorious, libelous Private Eye.
Waugh's matchless intellect, trenchant irony, and dry wit make Will This Do? as enjoyable and outrageous an autobiography as the best of his father's fiction.
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Hardcover
,
288 pages
Published
May 1st 1998
by Carroll & Graf Pub
(first published January 1st 1980)
I think if my father were Evelyn Waugh and I had literary inclinations, I would either (a) suppress them and become an accountant or something or (b) change my name (various children of famous writers have done this, like Stephen King's son, if I recall) so that I could rise or fall on my on my own merits. Auberon Waugh, as it turns out, has very few merits as a novelist, and so trying to coast on his family name—and failing even to succeed in that—was his first mistake. The snarky middlebrow co
I think if my father were Evelyn Waugh and I had literary inclinations, I would either (a) suppress them and become an accountant or something or (b) change my name (various children of famous writers have done this, like Stephen King's son, if I recall) so that I could rise or fall on my on my own merits. Auberon Waugh, as it turns out, has very few merits as a novelist, and so trying to coast on his family name—and failing even to succeed in that—was his first mistake. The snarky middlebrow comic novels he's churned out are so far from being half as good as, say, "Scoop" or "A Handful of Dust" that it is painful (plus, he has the chutzpah to mock the snarky, middlebrow, and incidentally far better, books of his uncle, Alec Waugh). And what I *certainly* never would have done, if I were Auberon Waugh, is written this precise memoir. For fans of Waugh (and when people say simply "Waugh" they always and always will mean Evelyn), this book is valuable in offering insights into his character and distinct lack of parenting skills. Like the story of how the three bananas (one per child) allotted under post-war rationing to the Waugh family—the children had never seen a banana, let alone tasted one—were served to Evelyn by his wife and consumed at a sitting by right in front of his children with visible relish. That pretty much typified Waugh's attitude toward children, especially his own, and there are plenty of revealing and memorable anecdotes like this in the book. However, once Waugh dies in 1966 (Auberon writes that in his father's last years their relationship became "cordial"), things in this book go downhill. Now we're stuck with the mediocre progeny as the main characters. Auberon marries into a titled monied family and then drifts into being a book reviewer, book review editor, to-all-practical-purposes failed comic novelist, and—what he considers his greatest accomplishment—the author of barbed, vicious humor pieces about public figures for The Spectator and, especially, Private Eye. A lot of his writing is hilarious in its place—I've enjoyed it myself—and his columns typically take half an hour to write, five minutes to read, with a belly laugh or two along the way, and then another five minutes to forget utterly. Only the British have managed to make being a conservative reactionary bigoted son of a bitch somewhat endearing, and Waugh (père) was a master of this. His conservatism was charming because he was a comic figure, like Don Quixote, a swivel-eyed loon when it came to adulation of the aristocracy (a charge against his father which Auberon unconvincingly denies) but ultimately harmless. Waugh stayed holed up at his country manor and refused even to use the telephone, so when he opined that the Crown should take back India—or whatever-all ridiculous views he espoused—you couldn't get mad about it because he wasn't really living in the real world. Auberon, however, was and is a manic socialite (and name-dropper) who is deeply engaged in politics, so as an Oxford graduate who is informed on all the issues, his unapologetically elitist Thatcherite views are often simply baffling, and ugly. His writing is enjoyable only insofar as you don't think about his actual views too much; he's more tolerable when he's tearing other people down than when he's saying what his own ideals are. Waugh Sr. was unbearably elitist, but he never just angrily spat on the poor, as Auberon often does in print. Plus, Auberon presents the last third of his book—what in a successful person's memoir is usually the part with the gradually expanding reputation and the honors and accolades—as a long catalogue of all the times he was sued for libel for his outrageous skewering of public figures. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, except that he seems often unaware how sad it all is compared to his father's accomplishments. Evelyn Waugh fought on both fronts in World War II and knew Churchill personally, then wrote Brideshead Revisited, a masterpiece just brimming with some of the most perfect sentences ever written; Auberon, by contrast, got out of the army by barely surviving shooting himself with a machine gun and then, as a middle-aged man, barely escapes being fined by the race relations board for writing that a particular wine's bouquet tasted like "a dead chrysanthemum laid on the grave of a stillborn West Indian baby." That all pretty much sums up father and son. Auberon seems determined to vindicate his father's preemptive disappointment in him as a son and as a writer and as a person. Make no mistake, the title of this book, whether Auberon realizes it or not, is addressed to the ghost of his father, and I can just hear the old man saying, "No, my boy. No, it will not."
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Son of Evelyn, this writer at age 50 says "a professional writer has only so many shots in his locker, and autobiography is one of them." His unsentimental, but plainly affectionate, description of the famous family from which he sprang is a high point. Because of the "monstrous child and even worse adolescent" Waugh recalls (himself, in his own words), this might be especially interesting to parents of teens. Sadly, Waugh did not live many years after this book's publication.
Okay. My review may be a BIT inflated...since I had the privilege of being around Bron Waugh when I was an intern at his book review. I think Kakutani--in her NYT review-- said that this book is blissfully devoid of American style psychoanalyzing...but is still fascinating when it comes to his stories about his famous father. Very English. Very funny. Maybe very funny since it is so English.
An honest and sometimes stark memoir of one of Britain's best satirists and humorists. His reputation with some as a literary monster did not match his general personal demeanour and his writings remain a delight whether from Way of the World or the unmatched surrealism of his Private Eye Diaries. Along with Peter Cook he is missed by me at least as someone who made life explicable.
He was a master of vituperation and a great soldier in the journalistic wars of late 20th century London. He was not quite the snobbish shit his father, Evelyn, could be, but he was as funny and was almost as great a stylist. He was an estimable character and this is an estimable book.
Well-worth reading for those intrigued by Evelyn Waugh - a good take on growing up under the mantle of his heavy-duty father and the history of his literary family in general (also, if one has read a bunch on the Mitfords, add this to your list).