Reality television has demonstrated that it is no longer necessary to possess a distinguishing talent in order to enjoy celebrity status. Critics might argue that Simon Garfield has worked similar wonders for the diarist’s art. Where once we were treated to the inner demons of generals and statesmen, Garfield touts the daily musings of ordinary folk doing nothing much.
For We Are at War, he has unearthed the diaries of five individuals who originally submitted their entries to the Mass Observation organisation in the first 14 months of the second world war. That clash of empires and ideologies has often been described as the ‘People’s War’. Yet, intriguingly, none of the diarists selected by Garfield is actually engaged in the conflict. One of them flogs stationery in Preston. Another is a clerical worker in Glasgow. There is even a resting freelance journalist. So, not exactly key workers.
Far removed from the front line, they discover that the war is happening primarily in the newspapers, on the radio and in fifth-hand gossip. For them, its direct effect is one of inconvenience. For the reader, the effect is like retelling the Iraq war from the diary of a Salford commuter: ‘Terrible scenes of shock and awe on the six o’clock news last night. I thought Huw Edwards looked severe. And tired. How long now until £1 a litre at the pumps? Went into the garage with a torch to see if the bike was roadworthy. As I suspected, the tire tread totally worn!!’
To be fair, we can’t all be Field Marshal Lord Alanbrooke. And yet, in its own deeply unheroic way, We Are at War has period charm. The diarists, all essentially decent types, try to keep their baser feelings under wraps. The world is going to hell in a hand-cart, but they are not going to miss the evening class on Beowulf.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in