So many times, usually when I’m away from the computer, I think “I gotta get _______'s diaries” and so I figure I’ll ask you all.
Directors, actors, musicians, humorists, authors, or other historical figures.
Pepys
Charles Bukowski
Great reminder. Thanks!
Pither’s journal isn’t bad.
Both Benjamin Franklin’s and Winston Churchill’s first autobios read pretty much like diaries.
Do you want fiction recommendations for such books, too?
I thought Michael Palin’s diaries and Jeffrey Archer’s prison diaries were interesting.
Mary Chestnut’s civil war diary is very good if you’re into history. Ken Burns featured it in the PBS Civil War series.
If you’re into the 18th century there is an amazing diary which is not very well known - the Diary of Fanny Burney (Madame D’Arblay).
Fanny Burney was a successful novelist who was a great inspiration to Jane Austen. She knew Dr Johnson and his whole circle, and for five years was lady in waiting to the Queen - through the whole period of the first bout of insanity of George III. She left a very vivid and fascinating account (very different from the movie).
She later married a French royalist general and spent most of the Napoleonic Wars in Paris. She was in Brussels during the Battle of Waterloo and saw the soldiers marching through to the battle, and the long columns of wounded and dying coming back afterwards. She had breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy in 1811, without anesthetic - of which she gives a harrowing account. But she recovered fully, and lived another 30 years, well into her 80’s.
This is one of the few books I’ve ever read where there were times that I literally couldn’t put it down. I was reading it compulsively even during meals.
Some entertaining extracts, enclosed in spoilers for length:
The trials of a newly published writer:
[Evelina was published anonymously, and only a few people knew that this stage that Burney was the author, including Mrs. Thrale and Dr. Johnson.]
Mr. Lort suddenly said, “Pray, ma’am, have you heard any thing of a novel that runs about a good deal, called ‘Evelina’?'”
What a ferment did this question, before such a set, put me in! I did not know whether he spoke to me, or Mrs. Thrale; and Mrs. Thrale was in the same doubt, and as she owned, felt herself in a little palpitation for me, not knowing what might come next. Between us both, therefore, he had no answer.
“It has been recommended to me”, continued he, “but I have no great desire to see it because it has such a foolish name. Yet I have heard a great deal of it, too.”
He then repeated “Evelina”—in a very languishing and ridiculous tone. My heart beat so quick against my stays that I almost panted with extreme agitation, from the dread either of hearing some horrible criticism, or of being betrayed; and I munched my biscuit as if I had not eaten for a fortnight. I believe the whole party were in some little consternation; Dr. Johnson began see-sawing; Mr. Thrale awoke; Mr. E, who I fear has picked up some notion of the affair from being so much in the house, grinned amazingly; and Mr. Seward, biting his nails and flinging himself back in his chair, I am sure had wickedness enough to enjoy the whole scene.
Mrs. Thrale was really a little flattered, but without looking at me, said, “And pray what, Mr. Lort, what have you heard of it?”
Now, had Mrs. Thrale not been flurried, this was the last question she should have ventured to ask before me. Only suppose what I must feel when I heard it.
“Why they say,” answered he, “that it’s an account of a young lady’s first entrance into company, and of the scrapes she gets into; and they say there’s a great deal of character in it, but I have not cared to look in it, because the name is so foolish—‘Evelina.’”
“Why foolish, sir?” cried Dr. Johnson. “Where’s the folly of it?”
“Why, I won’t say much for the name myself,” said Mrs. Thrale, “to those who don’t know the reason of it, which I found out, but which nobody else seems to know.”
She then explained the name from Evelyn, according to my own meaning.
“Well,” said Dr. Johnson, “if that was the reason, it is a very good one.”
“Why, have you had the book here?” cried Mr. Lort, staring.
“Ay, indeed, have we,” said Mrs. Thrale; “I read it when I was last confined, and I laughed over it, and I cried over it!”
“O ho!” said Mr. Lort, “this is another thing! If you have had it here, I will certainly read it.”
“Had it! aye,” returned she; “and Dr. Johnson, who would not look at it at first, was so caught by it when I put it in the coach with him, that he has sung its praises ever since,—and he says Richardson would have been proud to have written it.”
“O ho! this is a good hearing!”’ cried Mr. Lort; “if Dr. Johnson can read it, I shall get it with all speed.”
“You need not go far for it”, said Mrs. Thrale, “for it’s now upon yonder table.”
I could sit still no longer; there was something so awkward, so uncommon, so strange in my then situation, that I wished myself a hundred miles off; and indeed, I had almost choked myself with the biscuit, for I could not for my life swallow it; and so I got up, and, as Mr. Lort went to the table to look for “Evelina”, I left the room, and was forced to call for water to wash down the biscuit, which literally stuck in my throat.
I heartily wished Mr. Lort at Jerusalem.[/SPOILER]
In the household of George III:
[SPOILER] The sweet little Princess Amelia [aged about 4], who had promised me a visit, came during tea. I left everybody to play with her, and Mr. Smelt joined in our gambols. We pretended to put her in a phaeton, and to drive about and make visits with her. She entered into the scheme with great spirit and delight, and we waited upon Mrs. Delany and Mrs. Smelt alternately. Children are never tired of playing at being women; and women there are who are never tired, in return, of playing at being children!
In the midst of this frolicking, which at times was rather noisy, by Mr. Smelt’s choosing to represent a restive horse, the King entered! We all stopped short, guests, hosts, and horses; and all, with equal celerity, retreated, making the usual circle for his Majesty to move in.
The little Princess bore this interruption to her sport only while surprised into quiet by the general respect inspired by the King. The instant that wore off, she grew extremely impatient for the renewal of our gambols, and distressed me most ridiculously by her innocent appeals. “Miss Burney! Come! Why don’t you play? Come, Miss Burney, I say, play with me! Come into the phaeton again! Why don’t you, Miss Burney?”
After a thousand vain efforts to quiet her by signs, I was forced to whisper her that I really could play no longer.
“But why? why, Miss Burney? Do! Do come and play with me! You must, Miss Burney!”
This petition growing still more and more urgent, I was obliged to declare my reason, in hopes of appeasing her, as she kept pulling me by the hand and gown, so entirely with all her little strength, that I had the greatest difficulty to save myself from being suddenly jerked into the middle of the room: at length, therefore, I whispered, “We shall disturb the King, ma’am!”
This was enough; she flew instantly to his Majesty, who was in earnest discourse with Mr. Smelt, and called, “Papa, go!”
“What?” cried the King.
“Go! Papa, you must go!” repeated she eagerly.
The King took her up in his arms, and began kissing and playing with her; she strove with all her might to disengage herself, calling aloud “Miss Burney! Miss Burney! Take me! Come, I say, Miss Burney! O Miss Burney, come!”
You may imagine what a general smile went round the room at this appeal. The King took not any notice of it, but set her down, and went on with his discourse. She was not, however, a moment quiet till he retired: and then we renewed our diversions, which lasted to her bed-time.
Some bumbling Oxford professors meet the King:
[SPOILER]After this, the vice-chancellor and professors begged for the honour of kissing the king’s hand. Lord Harcourt was again the backward messenger; and here followed a great mark of goodness in the king: he saw that nothing less than a thoroughbred old courtier, such as Lord Harcourt, could walk backwards down these steps, before himself, and in sight of so full a hall of spectators - and he therefore dispensed with being approached to his seat, and walked down himself into the area, where the vice-chancellor kissed his hand, and was imitated by every professor and doctor in the room.
Notwithstanding this considerate good-nature in his majesty, the sight, at times, was very ridiculous. Some of the worthy collegiates, unused to such ceremonies, and unaccustomed to such a presence, the moment they had kissed the king’s hand, turned their backs to him, and walked away as in any common room; others, attempting to do better, did still worse, by tottering and stumbling, and falling foul of those behind them. Some, ashamed to kneel, took the king’s hand straight up to their mouths; others, equally off their guard, plumped down on both knees, and could hardly get up again; and many, in their confusion, fairly arose by pulling his Majesty’s hand to raise them.
As the king spoke to every one, upon Lord Harcourt’s presenting them, this ceremonial took up a good deal of time but it was too new and diverting to appear long.[/SPOILER]
An anecdote about the artist Mauritius Lowe:
[SPOILER]
There is a certain poor wretch of a villanous painter, one Mr. Lowe, who is in some measure under Dr. Johnson’s protection, and whom, therefore, he recommends to all the people he thinks can afford to sit for their pictures. Among these, he made Mr. Seward very readily and then applied to Mr. Crutchley.
“But now,” said Mr. Crutchley, as he told me the circumstance, "I have not a notion of sitting for my picture, — for who wants it? I may as well give the man the money without; but no, they all said that would not do so well, and Dr. Johnson asked me to give him my picture.
‘And I assure you, sir,’ says he, ‘I shall put it in very good company, for I have portraits of some very respectable people in my dining-room.’
‘Ay, sir,’ says I, ‘that’s sufficient reason why you should not have mine, for I am sure it has no business in such society.’
So then Mrs. Thrale asked me to give it to her. ‘Ay, sure, ma’am,’ says I, ‘you do me great honour; but pray, first, will you do me the favour to tell me what door you intend to put it behind?’
However, after all I could say in opposition, I was obliged to go to the painter’s. And I found him in such a condition! A room all dirt and filth, brats squalling and wrangling, up two pair of stairs, and a closet, of which the door was open, that Seward well said was quite Pandora’s box — it was the repository of all the nastiness, and stench, and filth, and food, and drink, and oh, it was too bad to be borne!
And, ‘Oh!’ says I, ‘Mr. Lowe, I beg your pardon for running away, but I have just recollected another engagement.’ So I poked the three guineas in his hand, and told him I would come again another time, and then ran out of the house with all my might."[/SPOILER]
In Brussels immediately after the Battle of Waterloo:
[SPOILER] The Duke now ordered that the hospitals, invalids, magazines, etc., should all be stationed at Brussels, which he regarded as saved from invasion and completely secure.
It is not near the scene of battle that war, even with victory, wears an aspect of felicity-no, not even in the midst of its highest resplendence of glory. A more terrific or afflicting sojourn than that of Brussels at this period can hardly be imagined. The universal voice declared that so sanguinary a battle as that which was fought almost in its neighbourhood, and quite within its hearing, never yet had spread the plains with slaughter; and though exultation cannot ever have been prouder, nor satisfaction more complete, in the brilliancy of success, all my senses were shocked in viewing the effects of its attainment.
For more than a week from this time I never approached my window but to witness sights of wretchedness. Maimed, wounded, bleeding, mutilated, tortured victims of this exterminating contest passed by every minute: the fainting, the sick, the dying and the dead, on brancards, in carts, in waggons, succeeded one another without intermission. There seemed to be a whole and a large army of disabled or lifeless soldiers.
All that was intermingled with them bore an aspect of still more poignant horror; for the Bonapartian prisoners who were now poured into the city by hundreds, had a mien of such ferocious desperation, where they were marched on, uninjured, from having been taken by surprise or overpowered by numbers - or faces of such anguish, where they were drawn on in open vehicles, the helpless victims of gushing wounds or horrible dislocations, that to see them without commiseration for their sufferings, or admiration for the heroic, however misled enthusiasm, to which they were martyrs, must have demanded an apathy dead to all feeling but what is personal, or a rancour too ungenerous to yield even to the view of defeat. Both the one set and the other of these unhappy warriors endured their calamities with haughty forbearance of complaint.
The maimed and lacerated, while their ghastly visages spoke torture and death, bit their own clothes, perhaps their flesh! to save the loud utterance of their groans; while those of their comrades who had escaped these corporeal inflictions seemed to be smitten with something between remorse and madness that they had not forced themselves on to destruction ere thus they were exhibited in dreadful parade through the streets of that city they had been sent forth to conquer.
Others of these wretched prisoners had, to me, as I first saw them, the air of the lowest and most disgusting of Jacobins, in dirty tattered vestments of all sorts and colours, or soiled carters’ frocks; but disgust was soon turned to pity, when I afterwards learnt that these shabby accoutrements had been cast over them by their conquerors after despoiling them of their own.
Everybody was wandering from home; all Brussels seemed living in the streets. The danger to the city, which had imprisoned all its inhabitants except the rabble or the military, once completely passed, the pride of feeling and showing their freedom seemed to stimulate their curiosity in seeking details on what had passed and was passing. But neither the pride nor the joy of victory was anywhere of an exulting nature.
Bulletins in a few shop-windows alone announced to the general public that the Allies had vanquished and that Bonaparte was a fugitive.[/SPOILER]
If you’re interested in descriptions of diaries with some short excerpts, look at this book by Thomas Mallon:
“A Book of One’s Own, an informal guide to the great diaries of literature, was published in 1984 and gave Mallon his first dose of critical acclaim. Richard Eder, writing in the Los Angeles Times (28 November 1984) called the book “an engaging meditation on the varied and irrepressible spirit of life that insists on preserving itself on paper.” In A Book of One’s Own, Mallon covers a wide range of diarists from Samuel Pepys to Anais Nin. He explained his enthusiasm for the genre by saying: “Writing books is too good an idea to be left to authors.” The success of A Book of One’s Own won Mallon a Rockefeller Fellowship in 1986.”
GreenWyvern, thanks for the Fanny Burney excerpts! I’ve actually read bits of her books and have to say that I find her diaries much more engaging.
Kilvertand Gilbert White if you like natural history
Charles Greville and Lord Hervey
for aristocratic gossip
Anne Frank
I actually read them in Amsterdam.
These are online - https://www.pepysdiary.com
I once fell into the habit of reading each day’s entry with my first cup of coffee - then I wandered into reading all the annotations and it became too much of a time suck.
The very first entry there (1 January 1660) is already censored! [And for no apparent reason. The “about” page explains that the text is from an 1893 edition with “some Victorian censorship… and some almost unexplainable changes”, yet for some reason this is the version he chose to post!] Indeed, if you dig into the annotations the missing words are there, but that would get annoying quick.
A Cup of Tears by Andrew Lewin. A searing account of life in the Warsaw Ghetto under the Nazis.
Anais Nin.
I’ve been reading this online diary for some time. The annotations and comments are what make it interesting.
There are links to articles about all the people mentioned, which is very useful because there are so many people in Pepys’ life. The comments and discussions often explain obscure points, the meanings of words and phrases, give historical background, or are simply entertaining.
I suppose the 1893 edition was used because it was the only one online and free to use when the site was started in 2003. The occasional sexual passages omitted are very few, and the full passage is always given in the comments below, so it’s not a problem.
Boswell’s* Life of Samuel Johnson* is a biography, not a diary, but it often reads like a diary from 1763 onward, when Boswell met Johnson. It’s still probably the greatest work of biography ever written, and one of the most entertaining books I’ve ever read.
Boswell’s Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson, LL.D. is a proper diary with daily entries, and perhaps a good starting point for Boswell and Johnson.
It’s the diary of a tour of Scotland, particularly the Highlands and Hebrides, in 1773. Boswell knew everybody worth knowing among the intellectuals and nobility of Scotland, so he was a good person to go on tour with. They started at Boswell’s home in Edinburgh and went round the coast to St. Andrews, Aberdeen, Inverness, Glenelg, Oban, and to several of the islands, including Raasay, Skye, Mull, Coll, Ulva, Inchkennneth, and Iona. Then back round to Inveraray, and Edinburgh again. The whole tour took about three months.
Tara Westover’s Educated is a harrowing nonfiction account of her life in a fundamentalist, sometimes violent Mormon household and later university experiences; it often reads like a journal.
Vincent Van Gogh - Ever Yours (The Essential Letters)