Books in Brief

The London Diary (1717-1721) and Other Writings of William Byrd of Virginia, edited by Louis B. Wright and Marion Tinling (Oxford, $10.00). The hour he rose, the weather, what he ate; whom he visited, played cards, or gossiped with during the day; the lady of the night and whether or not he said his prayers: these are the stock items which William Byrd recorded in secret shorthand for years; and if one is curious about human beings, his diary is of almost no interest at all, unless it be to prove how consistently uncomplex—how like a healthy tomcat—a grown-up man can be. But if one is interested in the way- of-life and mise-en-scéne of an early eighteenth-century American colonial who divided his time between his Virginia plantation and Hanoverian London, this is solid documentation. For people who nowadays tend to hold as nostalgically idealized a view of the eighteenth-century average gentlemen as he, in turn, held of the Noble Savage, it ought also to be slightly disenchanting. Morally, rationally, and materially secure as he may have been, he could at the same time preserve, in that tiny area two inches behind his forehead, a nearly total vacuum. R. phelps

The Arctic Year, by Peter Freuchen and Finn Salomsen (Putnam, $5.95). This is one of the most beautiful books written in recent years. Not because it is poetic or dramatic. Actually, it is written like a laboratory report, but the subject matter in itself is poetry, involving the “ecology of life,” how man and other forms of life are affected by the Arctic’s changing seasons. Arctic life is simple and clear. All that is superfluous has been eliminated. There are no trees, no houses, no noise; often there are no other human beings near you for scores of miles in this white area. Reading about it, you feel close to the basic secrets of nature—although sometimes these secrets seem a little too basic.

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The London Diary (1717-1721) and Other Writings of William Byrd of Virginia, edited by Louis B. Wright and Marion Tinling (Oxford, $10.00). The hour he rose, the weather, what he ate; whom he visited, played cards, or gossiped with during the day; the lady of the night and whether or not he said his prayers: these are the stock items which William Byrd recorded in secret shorthand for years; and if one is curious about human beings, his diary is of almost no interest at all, unless it be to prove how consistently uncomplex—how like a healthy tomcat—a grown-up man can be. But if one is interested in the way- of-life and mise-en-scéne of an early eighteenth-century American colonial who divided his time between his Virginia plantation and Hanoverian London, this is solid documentation. For people who nowadays tend to hold as nostalgically idealized a view of the eighteenth-century average gentlemen as he, in turn, held of the Noble Savage, it ought also to be slightly disenchanting. Morally, rationally, and materially secure as he may have been, he could at the same time preserve, in that tiny area two inches behind his forehead, a nearly total vacuum. R. phelps

The Arctic Year, by Peter Freuchen and Finn Salomsen (Putnam, $5.95). This is one of the most beautiful books written in recent years. Not because it is poetic or dramatic. Actually, it is written like a laboratory report, but the subject matter in itself is poetry, involving the “ecology of life,” how man and other forms of life are affected by the Arctic’s changing seasons. Arctic life is simple and clear. All that is superfluous has been eliminated. There are no trees, no houses, no noise; often there are no other human beings near you for scores of miles in this white area. Reading about it, you feel close to the basic secrets of nature—although sometimes these secrets seem a little too basic.