School holidays bring more than their usual fair share of activity for me these days, with a young family, a new house, and various admin jobs to complete over the break. So the usual habit of being able to slip away into the joys of reading and writing has had to take a back seat. Scrolling idly through twitter earlier in the summer break, I noticed a reference to RG Collingwood’s autobiography – a text I read many years ago now, and enjoyed.
As a graduate student, I had read several of Collingwood’s books, having been led to them by favourable references in the historian Quentin Skinner, whose writing I was also absorbing at that time. Anyway, coming across Collingwood again jolted me to revisit his autobiography, which tells the story of a figure who managed to rebel significantly against many of the leading ideas and orthodoxies of intellectual life in his time. And, luckily for him, to find some decent recognition and praise for doing so.
I have now reached chapter 5 of the autobiography and already several features of the text have jumped out and prompted reflection. Foremost among them: Collingwood notes how, so often in his own time, participants in major intellectual debates prefer to argue with caricature versions of their opponents’ positions, rather than reality. Collingwood reports on how it is easy enough to see where this is happening by simply looking up the arguments for oneself, and reading them, as set out, by their originators. This is a familiar feature of intellectual life, and indeed political life, in our own time.
Probably because of my own lack of productivity of late, I was struck also by Collingwood’s remarks in chapter 3 of the autobiography on ‘why people do not write books’. He knows, he says, of just two reasons: ‘either they are conscious that they have nothing to say, or they are conscious that they are unable to say it’. He adds: ‘if they give any other reason than these it is to throw dust in other people’s eyes or their own’.
Collingwood’s matter-of-fact plainspeak is refreshing at a time when fuzzy fake-warmth permeates so much of our written expression. The candour and precision of the judgment here reminds me of Orwell (among others). The passage made me wonder: in my recent inactivity, do I fall into one of these camps? If I tell myself I don’t, am I simply throwing dust into my eyes?
Having considered the question, I want to argue with Collingwood that feeling rested and well is an important condition for the production of good writing. One might be conscious of having things to say, or indeed conscious that they are still ruminating about how best to say it, without yet being in a position to sit down and write.
So I suppose I dissent from his position, as articulated here. This said, it is equally the case, I find, that, like much else in life, writing is a habit, and if one falls out of a habit, it is hard to pick it back up. On this note, look out for more blogposts from me on here soon. The habit of contributing regularly to adastrapermundum is one I miss and hope to revive.
ad astra per mundum 