My Compliments

In an office cubicle today, somebody I do not know personally, but with whom I had to deal, paid me an effusive compliment on my scarf as I came in from the cold. It is, admittedly, a fetching scarf, which is why I wear it; not overly useful as protection from an Arctic squall, but perfect for Boston’s not too serious winter. It is Scottish wool, and hails from Liberty of London. Set against a grey tweed with small flecks of the same yellow, it bespeaks an ‘I like winter’ attitude. Which I do. There are so many more sartorial options for the gentlemanly winter, and never a fearful deliberation about shorts. Long may the season last.

I was immediately buoyed by the compliment and offered hearty thanks, after which the compliment was repeated, with embellishments. I was genuinely surprised and cheered by this unsolicited fillip, and later it gave me pause. I dress only for my own sense of self-worth, rather than to garner the plaudits of others; but as a dear correspondent of mine has pointed out, one must consider the pleasure afforded oneself by the admiration of others. Moreover, I can only presume that the compliment was an expression of pleasure in the observer. What to make of all this?

Nobody seems to lose in this rare cycle of happiness. There is no symbolic violence. This is no potlatch. Nothing is ventured and plenty gained. If I am to please somebody through no device other than through being me, and if that somebody is to reflect my inherent pleasingness back to me, and to please me through alerting me to it, then I see no reason for complaint. The key is sincerity. I was in half a mind to go and ‘pay it forward’: find some random person and tell them something nice. But disingenuousness tends to cycle the other way and I thought better of it. I did resolve to compliment the next person who pleases me in such an unintended fashion. And then changed my mind.

You see, paying people compliments isn’t as easy as all that. Compliment a woman your age or younger and you might be considered indiscrete. Compliment a man of practically any age under geriatric and you might be considered all kinds of indiscrete. Of course, indiscretions such as these have their place, if played properly; but a slap in the face or an embarrassed blush doesn’t exactly herald an ever ascending cycle of mutual bliss. The moment must be right, spontaneous, and uncontrived. I can’t exactly pinpoint what makes such a moment, but today I had one, and I saw that it was good.

Letters Never Sent

Every day I receive and send ethereal sacks full of ‘email’ (the very word sticks in my craw: it so denigrates French enamel). In days of yore I would have been considered a man of letters, and would have welcomed the duty of daily correspondence; but since everyone sends electronic communications in large quantities the distinction seems to have been lost, and I confess that I find such e-pistles a chore. A hand-written letter could never have been considered ‘junk’, but I am afraid that many of my well-intentioned missives now end up being lost in, or fetched from, invidious ‘spam’ folders. I have never had a close relationship with processed ‘meat’, and resent being implicated by association. Opening an email is to opening a letter what buying a book online is to buying a book in a shop. It lacks the richness of experience: the simple sensual pleasures of touch and smell; it lacks a sense of personal connection.

I have tried to write letters, but in vain. Those I have sent are met with thanks or response by email, which rather short-circuits the intention. To keep my hand in – and everyone should, by the way; penmanship is a sophisticated art that used to be taught in schools – I write with a pen whenever I can. Professional writings, I admit, begin life in some hideous word-processing software (has anybody else noticed that Microsoft has appropriated the abbreviation for manuscript?), but all the editing – all the writerly work – takes place on paper, with pen and ink. The crossings-out map processes of thought otherwise eliminated by the backspace key. I annotate the books I own. Some would no doubt argue that this is a mortal sin, but I find the marginalia of others fascinating, and leave my own marks just in case some future researcher ever thinks me interesting enough to study! Besides, I have always found my notes to be interesting reminders of past cogitations: they are autobiographical in the most surprising ways. And I scribble bits and pieces, these thoughts for example, in a timeless black jotter.


People have forgotten – those a little younger than I never have known – about the smell of ink. It really does imbue the written word with a certain je ne sais quoi. A good pen (do not trouble me with ballpoints) puts one in touch with the elegant tool use of our most literate forebears. And, unlike the altogether temporary tools that comprise our computing arsenals, it will last forever if properly maintained. I had the great fortune of receiving mine (pictured) as a gift, and I could hardly think of anything better. Yet even if you are not so lucky, I would encourage the investment: it will put you in touch with yourself in such a way that your computer never could. These days the white-collar proof of labour, not to mention its malingering excuse, is RSI of the wrist. Such effete complaints would truly have shocked and appalled the clerks of yesteryear. I propose that it is preferable, and never unbecoming, for a man accidentally to betray his labour by the ink on his hands. An inky finger, after all, suggests an active mind.

One to Blow and One for Show

Of handkerchiefs let Othello set out our stall:

‘To lose’t or give’t away were such perdition / As nothing else could match’ (Othello, 3:4:67-8).

The only thing more overblown than the noses of influenza sufferers is all this bunk about sneezing and coughing into one’s elbow or into a tissue that should immediately afterwards be discarded. These two options, seen side by side, beg an awkward question: if tissues are to be incinerated with haste, lest the evil germs fester therein and, God forbid, infect somebody, then what are we to think of the aggregate of viral nasties dwelling in the crooks of our collective elbows? Are we also to eject our clothing at the first opportunity? I have not seen any inordinate queues at the drycleaner, so I can only assume that so-called ‘polite’ sneezers bear hazardous arms. The days of romantically linking arm in arm are over, for in such friction, danger lurks.

The reality is that nobody who remotely values the clothes on his back would want to sneeze into his elbow, any more than he would wipe his nose on his sleeve. And tissues? A loose agglomeration of dust! Anyone who has accidentally left a tissue in a pocket to be laundered will readily tell anyone who cares to ask why such expensive, wasteful, papery frivolities are to be avoided at all costs. Let us instead remember the handkerchief. Confess – handkerchief! – O Devil!

Nothing is more elegant than a fresh linen hanky, neatly pressed and folded, and placed in a trouser pocket. If one has to sneeze or terminate an unwelcome sniff, and even the most refined of us do, then the handkerchief is a welcome resource. No one could frown on such a thing. In my experience, it’s best to have two on your person. One for your personal use, and one unused one, just in case you come across a damsel in distress. In addition to this washable, sanitary and elegant device, I recommend sparing a thought for the dress handkerchief. The one that is blown ought only to be seen when, well, when blowing. But there is also one for show.

A neatly arranged silk handkerchief is rarely seen in the top pocket of men’s jackets these days, but I cannot for the life of me think why not, since the pocket universally remains. A well chosen silk will lift any outfit, and given the current scarcity of such items, will set you apart as an individual with a strong sense of style. No novelties please (if you click this link, you should go forward to about the three-minute mark), but an idiosyncratic mix of colours and patterns is at the discretion of the wearer. It makes me smile whenever I see one; conversely, each time I see a sharp suit or blazer bereft of adornment I lament with Desdemona:

‘Sure, there’s some magic in this handkerchief: / I am most unhappy in the loss of it’ (Othello, 3:4:101-2).

A Valiant Draw

Cricket is thought a chivalrous activity, laden with codes and laws, courtesies and knightly grace. The copy-book drives and cuts evoke the thrusts and parries of expert swordplay; the mode of delivering the hard ball conjures the long-bow and the javelin at once; and the sound of leather on willow is deemed poetic, in and of itself. Spin, in this game at least, is honest. These things are true, but they are not the whole story. Those readers who come from non-cricketing nations, bear with me. For if you are stumped by talk of googlies and doosras, you will certainly be able to understand blood, sweat and grim determination. Cricket provides an object lesson in manliness: it presents the appearance of a dignified contest in good form, but is really a brutal encounter requiring courage, nerve, skill, stamina, and a high-tolerance for pain.

A cricket ball, fabricated from cork and leather, is hard as stone. It is bowled at speeds approaching 90mph from a distance of 22 yards at a man with nothing but some padded fabric and a blade of seasoned willow to defend himself. If it hits fingers, they break. If it hits thighs, they turn blue and purple. If it hits heads, not properly protected, then skulls fracture. Should it hit you in what cricket commentators politely call the ‘midriff’, all you can do is pray, and then hope to be able to count to two. Facing a lumbering, sweating, stinking confusion of arms and legs that is a fast bowler is akin to staring down an angry bull with nothing but a red rag for your defence. On the part of the bull, witness the sheer effort; on the part of the matador, regard the picture of concentration.

In a sequence of events that can last up to five days, this display of brute strength, violence and courage goes on, as one team determines to be victorious over another. Yet, strangely, the game often ends in a draw (not a tie, and not for merely semantic reasons). Honours are determined to be even. A concerted, protracted and genuine attempt to wear down the opposition, if not to hurt them acutely, frequently ends with a hand shake, a public appraisal of the other team’s character and moral qualities, and an affable statement that the indeterminate result is of no consequence, because the game is the true victor. What does this mean? It refers, I think, to the spirit in which the game is played. It is played to be won; it is played with no punches pulled, and with no apologies for its occasionally violent consequences; the endeavour employs great depths of character and resolve which, made manifest, display the measure of the men involved, and by which they are to be judged. Found to meet the mark, the result does not matter.

When Henry Newbolt penned the immortal lines extolling England’s youth to ‘Play up! And play the game’, he did not mean for us to forget the second verse, which defined his meaning of the word ‘play’. It is not in winning that cricket finds its importance, even if one endeavours to play to win. Nor is it in the taking part. Merely to take part is passive, and an insult to any game. The importance lies in the complete abandonment of other considerations – including one’s skin and bones – for the spirit of manly inclusion gained through whole-hearted commitment to a shared cause. Honour is just ‘a name’. Cricket is a proving ground of manly character, not to be gained through noble appearances alone, but through noble deeds.

The Face of Adversity

Last year was difficult for many, if not for most. Whatever has happened that shouldn’t have; whatever didn’t happen that should have; in whatever position you found yourself, prostrate and disquieted; whatever occurred, the trials of last year should not lead us into morbid depression. I do not suggest that a manly approach to adversity is to smile in its face, for if it is not a genuine smile I for one do not want to see it. Let us reserve that facial configuration for things that make us happy. Instead, I suggest that a manly approach is to set one’s jaw and meet the trials with grim determination. You have been knocked down; getting up and staying up will be all the more to your credit, not to mention your sense of satisfaction.

I will not bore you with my own trials, for harping on about hardship defines boring. I will not feed you platitudes about how hope was left in the jar (whichever way you see Hesiod’s myth about Pandora, I’m not convinced that hope is good for anything). Hope has no material effect, and leaves alive the prospect of hopes dashed. I will not tell of comforts found in superstitions; nor will I seek sympathy or, heaven forefend, pity. Suffice to say that the trials have been many and that they have been borne with difficulty. But they have been borne with the foreknowledge that they could be met. There are, in hard times, no substitutes for hard work, indefatigability, industry, creativity, and a determined idea of what the outcome will be.

Wherever we fall short, we stand tall. Wherever we are unexpectedly turned in the road, we find a new route. If injured, we mend. We do not mope into our milk, or trudge morosely into the wind. If you see the face of Adversity, slap it with all your might and march over its body. I do not advocate an abnegation of tenderness, for it has its place of importance in any manly life. Yet I doubt that your emotions will be up to scratch if you are soundly beaten down by circumstance. Lest it should be construed that I hereby advocate a positive attitude, I state clearly: I advocate defiance.