Aches and aphorisms

It is difficult to demonstrate why the Lees-Milne diaries, of which this is the tenth volume, are among the best of the 20th century. Easy to feel why, for you race through the pages with addictive passion, not wishing to miss a word, but awkward to justify the excitement. These are not records of momentous events (Greville or Nicolson or Channon), nor cleverly turned insults (overrated Alan Clark). They are simply the thoughts of an educated, emotional, rueful man with his eyes and ears perpetually on the alert for what makes human beings interesting or foolish, written with such tasteful ease one swallows them like Belgian truffles. They are nearer to Pepys than any other attempt at the genre.

In the present volume the diarist is nearing 80 and is inevitably glum about senility and decay. ‘Death is the end of expectation. That is all,’ he writes, bemoaning his constant tiredness, inability to keep upright, suffocating weakness, head in a cement-mixer of aches and nightmares, and the horror of his appearance (actually he always looked distinguished and gentle, but everyone secretly wants to look ravishing).